


Charybdis

by missmungoe



Series: Shanties for the Weary Voyager [5]
Category: One Piece
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF!Makino, F/M, Family, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Loving Marriage, Parenthood, Personal Growth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2018-09-07 23:35:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 176,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8820778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmungoe/pseuds/missmungoe
Summary: Being an Emperor’s wife didn’t come without risks. She’d always known that, but she hadn’t been prepared for what the sea would ask of her for choosing him, and the ways it would touch her quiet life, in her peaceful corner of the world. Her little port, which had never been anything but safe.Sea Songs AU. Forced to flee with their son when Blackbeard destroys her home, Makino sets out to find Shanks, nothing but a vivre card and her own wits to chart her course; but caught in the middle of a battle for power, must come to terms with the choices she’s made, and what they've made of her—if she’ll be a pawn or a player in this game, and if she’ll sink or swim, in a sea whose heart has no kindness left to spare the drowning. Even less, than those who seek to rule it.But the quiet waters of her own heart run deep. And as every experienced sailor knows: however still the surface of the sea, the unknown depths should never be taken lightly.





	1. lost

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate storyline of [Sea Songs](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8491117), the sequel to [Siren's Call](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6428275). In which Rayleigh doesn’t reach Makino in time, because I’m trash for the ‘person A thinks person B is dead and person B has no way of telling them that they’re alive’ trope.
> 
> Diverts from Sea Songs about halfway through, after the Red-Hair Pirates have left Fuschia again after the time-skip. In terms of the One Piece storyline, the setting is sometime post-Dressrosa & Baltigo. As this story was begun before their conclusion in the manga, it disregards both Zou and Whole Cake Island.

_"I hear congratulations are in order.”_

All form of coherent thought left him, along with his breath, and he watched Ben tense at his shoulder. The crew at his back had gone eerily silent.

“You so much as touch either of them, Teach, and it’s the last thing you do.”

The words were calmly spoken—too calmly for anyone who knew him to take comfort in it, and he felt the protesting  _creak_  of the planks straining under pressure, the ship’s familiar warning that he should rein in his haki, but he was light-headed with the soft threat sitting in Blackbeard’s words.

_"Hey, hey, that’s not a very nice thing to say to someone who just wanted to congratulate you on your pretty wife and—”_

He’d slammed the mouthpiece down before he could finish speaking, and punched in a new number before Blackbeard’s laughter had stopped ringing in his ears.

“Rayleigh,” Shanks said, before the man had the chance to so much as utter a single word.

 _"Kiddo,”_  came the greeting now, surprised laughter spilling into the quiet, but this was a different kind of mirth, and some of the tension in his shoulders relented, although not nearly enough to allow him to relax.  _“What’s got you calling this old man?”_

“I need you to do something for me.”

 

—

 

There was someone in her bedroom.

She became aware of the fact long before she felt the touch to her shoulder, although Makino couldn’t tell if it was continued exposure to Shanks’ presence that had attuned her so keenly to that of other people, or if it was something else that had woken her—some subconscious form of self-preservation, maybe, but with her next breath she’d curled her fingers around the pistol tucked beneath her pillow and turned, tossing the covers off—

“Whoa!”

The shadow backed away, gloved hands raised, the gesture one of surrender, but she didn’t lower the pistol. Her late mother had taught her to shoot, back when she’d been twelve and had just read a book about a princess masquerading as a sharpshooter and fancied herself one, and Yasopp had painstakingly helped her dust off her mediocre skills. And it wasn’t anything to brag about, but at close quarters with her heart in her throat and her son sleeping in the next room, there was a certainty sitting within her that she could have landed a killing shot with her eyes closed.

The intruder must have felt some of the same surety, because with his next breath he was lowering his hands carefully, and, “I have to say I’ve had kinder greetings,” he laughed, the sound far too mellow for what she’d been expecting. “Although I realise that I could have gone about this differently. Or had Koala do it—she’s better than I am at these things. She has more tact, anyway. At least that’s what she says.”

Pistol still raised, Makino blinked into the dark, trying to make sense of what was happening. He wasn’t attacking, or giving the impression that he planned to do so. He was just — _talking_ , although she wasn’t about to let her guard down because of it.

“Who are you?” she asked, and was glad when her voice didn’t waver.

He didn’t move, and with her eyes still adjusting to the dark, it was difficult picking out any clear details, but she could discern enough. It was a man, clad in a long coat and top-hat, a white cravat at his collar, and there was something familiar about the ensemble, but she couldn’t put her finger on what it was.

A smile then—she caught it stretching beneath the dark brim of the hat, and, “It’s been a long time, Ma-chan,” the stranger said, and if she didn’t know better she’d say he sounded _fond_.

She figured her confusion must show on her face, because then he was laughing. “You don’t recognise me?” he asked, but didn’t seem surprised by the fact, or insulted. Instead he only tipped his hat back to give her a better view of his face.

Loose blond curls tumbled over his cheeks, touching the edges of a vicious burn scar, and there was an inkling at the back of her mind now, a stray memory of a smile, missing a tooth, and apple-round cheeks scuffed and dirty. She remembered two loud boys competing for her attention, and a third, too polite for his years and happy to let his brothers have the spotlight.

The stranger’s grin turned sheepish, and he touched a hand to the back of his head, the gesture apologetic—and also keenly familiar. “I guess I can’t blame you—it’s been twelve years. And I was a lot shorter back then.”

It clicked, somewhere between the gesture and the sheepish smile, although she couldn’t seem to make the pieces fit. It was as though she could accept what her eyes were seeing, but not understand how it was possible.

“Sabo…?”

The name felt strange on her tongue, the syllables foreign after so long, but she’d lowered the pistol now, although she hadn’t relented her death grip on it.

His smile softened a bit at that, and she thought he looked pleased. “Hey,” he greeted. Then, “I know—I died. And there’s a good explanation for everything, that included, but we need to leave,” he said, voice dropping into a matter-of-fact tone that was so at odds with his earlier good humour, Makino could only blink.

She was still trying to catch up with the events of the night so far. “What—”

“I don’t have time to explain right now,” Sabo was saying then, cutting her off, although the look her gave her was apologetic. “But I promise I’ll tell you everything once we’re on the ship.”

“ _Ship_? What are you—”

“We have intel,” he said, although he didn't specify what. “I’ll explain it all later. All you need to know right now is that it’s not safe for you to stay here. So we’re getting you out—all of you.” But before she could ask what he meant by that, he was forging ahead, “But we’re running a bit short on time.”

There was that quiet urgency again, and it made her feel cold all over, but, “Trust me?” he asked then. And even if she felt in every bone in her body that she should deny the offer—that she should demand he explain what was going on before she agreed to _anything_ —there was something else, an uncanny sort of surety that had come to settle in her heart, urging her to yield.

She thought of what Shanks had said before he’d left, and what Garp had told her so many times, over and over until she’d almost stopped listening. But she listened now, and she saw the gravity of the situation on his face; in the hard press of his mouth beneath his kind eyes.

She turned towards the corridor, and the door sitting ajar. “Ace—”

Sabo grinned at that, and before she could finish—“One step ahead of you,” he declared, before he’d ducked through the doorway, leaving Makino standing in the middle of the room, thoughts still racing to catch up with the rest of her.

She considered her bedroom; the night sky beyond the open window, and the gentle, familiar shadows. Shanks’ shirt hanging over the back of the armchair, and the peace that she couldn’t reconcile with the urgency that had been sitting in Sabo’s voice.

 _Sabo_ , she thought, rubbing at her eyes. But she heard him moving—heard the quiet murmur of his voice as he woke Ace, and suddenly the full weight of the situation was bearing down on her shoulders all at once.

She made for the nightstand before she could even think about what she was doing, discarding the pistol and digging out the book in the top drawer, to fish out the sheaf of paper tucked between the pages. Carefully folded, there wasn't so much as a tear in it, and she took a moment to root her heart in the sight, and the surety offered by its undamaged state. And she hesitated only a second before she put the book back, shoving the drawer closed.

She realised that her hands were shaking, but her body seemed to be moving of its own accord, and she was in the process of pulling on her dressing robe when Sabo re-entered, a fussing Ace in his arms.

“Someone wasn’t happy to be woken,” he declared, his laugh a terribly gentle thing as he gave the baby a bounce. “A lot like his namesake that way. It’s probably a good thing he hasn’t learned to talk yet. I remember Ace would cuss up a storm every morning.” His expression softened a bit at the words, and if she’d had her mind with her, Makino might have managed a response.

“Come on,” he told her then, making for the staircase, and she wasn’t left with much choice but to follow.

 _This isn’t happening,_ she thought as she descended the stairs and made to cross Party’s empty common room, rubbing her hand across her eyes again, although she was wide awake. _This is a dream. You have dreams like this all the time, and this is just a very vivid one._

_This can’t be happening._

But it was difficult convincing herself as she pushed past the swinging doors and into to the cool air, only to find a muted chaos of movement and sound that was so vividly at odds with a regular Fuschia night, for a moment all she could do was stare.

There were others. She caught sight of Woop Slap, a local fisherman, and the owner of the flower shop, all being herded out of their homes by people she didn’t recognise. One of them turned upon catching sight of Sabo—a girl, Makino saw, a large hat and goggles perched on her head, her expression one of concentration, before irritation flashed, making her cheeks puff up.

“Sabo-kun! _Mou_ , could you give me a heads up before you run off? I’m supposed to keep track of everyone!”

Sabo’s smile was a quick flash of teeth. “Ah, sorry! I’m here now.”

If she noticed the baby in his arms, the girl didn’t bat an eye. “Just get to the ship!”

There was a hand on her elbow then, pulling gently, and despite her better judgement Makino allowed herself to be whisked off, not down the street towards the docks but across the fields that sprawled beyond Fuschia proper; a route she’d run many times in her childhood, shirking her duties with her Mistress at her heels, but the panic pushing her forward now was an entirely different sort, threatening her knees to buckle. She caught disgruntled murmurs from the people around her, all in similar states of undress, but there was _fear_ too, sitting in their sharp gestures, and with her own lodged like a stone in her chest it was all she could do to keep moving.

The night was dark and pressing, just a few rogue stars keeping watch over the island with the sickle moon, as though the sky knew more than they did and saw to keep them hidden as they ran. There was a ship waiting beyond the shore, Makino saw, sails black and inconspicuous and no jolly roger in sight, but she didn’t stop to consider it, following the young man carrying her son, and trying in vain to connect the image to the one in her mind — to the boy she’d barely gotten to know before he’d been gone. But she remembered Luffy’s stories; his sorrow perhaps most keenly.

She wondered if he knew that Sabo was alive, but the question slipped from her mind as she was helped into one of the dinghies idling by the water. It was quiet, the water still and black, stroking gently along the shoreline, a dark lover's touch. It soaked through her thin slippers, a shock of cold against her ankles, but with her mind still scrambling to follow, it barely fazed her.

There was a moment of panic where she couldn’t see where Sabo had disappeared off to, before a touch against her arm had her turning, only to find him offering a hand. Wide awake now, Ace was quiet on his arm, eyes large and round and taking in the commotion with silent awe. And Makino was suddenly, desperately glad he was too young to understand what was happening.

Although she had a thought, as she focused on not tripping over her own feet when the dinghy tipped with its new burden, that it wasn’t as though she was any wiser. Just old enough to know fear at her own ignorance.

“I know this is a lot to take in,” Sabo was saying then, dragging her gaze from the shore, disappearing behind them. The sea beyond stretched, a vast and inky darkness on all sides, and for a moment it made her feel claustrophobic, sensing the movements of the small dinghy beneath her but unable to spot even the ripples in the black water. She couldn't even tell where the shore began, only that they were drawing further away from it.

Before he could continue, a baby Den Den Mushi tucked into his collar perked up, drawing his attention, and when he spoke into it Makino heard the girl from before answer, _"—them all. Hack is bringing the rest, and I’ll tell the Big Boss. Don’t—”_

She felt the explosion before she heard it, the night lit white for the span of a single second, and the sheer intensity of it had Makino squeezing her eyes shut. Except the brightness was still there, as though burned into her retina, and the sudden pressure against her chest and her eardrums was enough to make her choke for breath as the boat pitched beneath them.

There was a flurry of movement — voices raised around her, and the water shoving against the sides of the boat, the once-quiet waters beneath seeming to _heave_ , as though in retaliation, but Makino remained in her seat, and the dinghy didn't tip over.

Her eyes watered, and when she forced them open her remaining breath left her in a rush, shaking hands gripping the side of the dinghy, rocking in the now-rippling sea.

“Koala!”

_“—hit, I’m okay! Phew, that was—”_

The line crackled, and then Sabo was speaking into the Den Den Mushi, words rushed and clipped, but what they were saying went beyond her as Makino watched the shore, far behind them now, but she could see it clearly, the night illuminated by the hungry flames and the smoke climbing greedily into the dark sky in the distance.

Ears ringing, she was dimly aware that Ace was crying, but she couldn’t tear her gaze away from the bright spot against the island they'd left — and what remained of the village on the other side of the rise.

“Makino?”

She thought of the bed she’d been sleeping in only moments ago, and the bar she’d spent the past twelve years running — the only home she’d ever known. The only home her son had ever known, now—

A hand on her shoulder, gripping it, and she turned to find Sabo, Ace on his arm and a wordless question in the slant of his brow. Her son's eyes were wide, frightened tears clinging to his lashes, and the sight dragged her bodily out of her shock and back to the cold night, and the boat rocking gently beneath them.

Small hands reached towards her, and she pulled him into her arms, his little body stiff with shock. He was wailing in earnest now, and there was a tremble that threatened like a sob at the bottom of her throat, hearing it. But she couldn't afford to fall to pieces now, and she felt the hard truth of that realisation in the little weight in her arms, warm and breathing but clawing at her dressing robe, too young to put words to his fears but feeling them all the same.

And she drew whatever strength she could from the other faces in the little dinghy, and those she saw drifting further ahead — people she knew, who were still alive. And houses could be rebuilt, she knew. Her bar could be rebuilt, but people…people’s losses weren’t so easily restored.

But the thought that they could have been lost just as easily as the village, any one of them, drummed an uncomfortable knowledge against her ribcage as they drew further away from the island. And the events of the night were finally dawning on her, creeping with a sudden, terrible cold across her skin. But she didn't give herself the chance to break, unwilling to lose herself now, even as she felt her whole body shaking, and Ace's murmured cries pressed into the hollow of her throat. Instead she dug her heels into the bottom of the boat and forced her breath through her nose, the familiar smell of the sea sharp and bracing, even as the tang of gunpowder drifted to her on the breeze.

And when she’d gathered herself enough to lift her gaze, Makino hugged her son as close as he could get, and watched her home burn.

 

—

 

It was a long time before anyone came to speak to her.

She’d been tucked away somewhere belowdecks, in a dry and warm cabin with a bunk, but sleep eluded her, seated on the worn mattress, her wet slippers cold and drying slowly. She had no mind to remove them.

Exhausted from crying, and thankfully too young to share his mother’s troubles, Ace had fallen asleep against her, and Makino threaded her fingers through his hair now, if only to give them something to do. The bright red strands were soft under her palm, and she touched her thumb to the corner of his mouth, wiping away a small pearl of drool, ever mindful of the fact that her hands were still shaking.

And sitting there in the restless quiet, her thoughts drifted to her husband, and all the warnings she’d been given. And she felt sick to her stomach now, realising just how woefully unprepared she’d been to face the world she’d known existed but whose ripples she’d never thought would reach all the way to her little island. She’d considered it of course, but for all her overactive imagination, to find it happening this way…

Unease sat like an itch under her skin, and she cast a furtive glance towards the cabin door. All she knew of what went on beyond it was the muffled sound of footsteps above her head, and the occasional muted sliver of conversation passing by outside. She didn’t know who these people were, if they were pirates or something else entirely. Having checked up on her immediately after boarding, Sabo had disappeared, and she hadn’t seen him since. She couldn’t even tell how much time had passed or where they were headed, could only tell that the ship was moving, the muted groan of the planks occasionally disturbing the quiet.

The thought sat, an uncomfortable weight in her chest, that she ought to get her hands on a Den Den Mushi. Shanks should know what had happened, and preferably from her. And—

A knock on the door made her jump, and she looked up to find it opening, admitting a tall man with a dark cloak wrapped around his broad shoulders. He had his face bared, his dark hair long and pulled back from his brow, and he’d barely ducked through the doorway before Makino realised that she recognised him. Anyone who’d ever opened a newspaper would, and there was a strangled noise caught in her throat that she couldn’t get out, taking in the severe pull of his features, and the red-inked tattoo.

Dragon the Revolutionary. The most wanted man in the world, and according to the World Government, the most dangerous. But even more than that—

“You’re Luffy’s father,” Makino said, before she could stop herself.

A small smile lifted the corner of that stern mouth, and in that moment he looked so much like Garp it was unnerving.

“I am,” he said, his voice a deep baritone, and lacking the tinge of good humour she associated with the rest of his family, but it wasn’t an unkind voice.

“You don’t remember me,” he was saying then, closing the door behind him, before coming to a stop just beyond the doorway. He towered almost as tall as the ceiling; Makino thought he seemed too big for the cramped cabin. Or his presence did, anyhow. “But I remember you," he told her. "Granted, you were younger when I saw you last, hiding behind Emiko’s skirts.”

The casual mention of her late mother had her eyes widening, but when she looked for her words she couldn’t find them. And all at once there was too much to ask—too many questions that needed answering, and under any other circumstance Makino might have pried into the things she’d always wondered regarding Luffy’s family that Garp had never shared, but tonight, with what she’d just witnessed—

“Who did this?” she heard herself asking, and it was the closest she could get to voicing the full truth that sat in her heart now, that her home was _gone_ , and that if it hadn’t been for these people she would have been gone along with it. _Ace_ would have—

She didn’t allow herself to follow that thought any further, and drew her certainty of his survival from the little heartbeat pushing against her palm, steady with earnest slumber where he lay sprawled on the mattress, his small limbs akimbo.

Dragon had been quiet for a long moment, and Makino was beginning to wonder if he would answer her at all when he said, “Blackbeard thrives on upheaval.” Her eyes widened at the name, but before she could say anything he'd continued, “Once I might have commended him for the trouble he’s caused the World Government, but his particular brand of chaos is a dark fire that destroys everything in its path. I would have the world standing, once all is said and done.”

Her chest caved with her breath. “Blackbeard?” And she knew that name—of course she did. She’d read the newspapers, and she’d heard the stories; Shanks’, and Ben’s, the latter's the most unforgiving. A regular storybook villain, and that might have been all, if it weren’t for how closely interwoven he was with the people she held most dear.

She thought of Shanks’ scars, and Ace, dropped on the Government’s doorstep without a backward glance. _Luffy._

There was a hot coil of anger clenching deep in her gut, and it had to show on her face because, “I see I don’t have to explain his motivations,” Dragon said then, that deep voice entirely level, and she couldn’t have guessed at his thoughts if she’d tried.

Makino shook her head, although it was hard to say what exactly it was she was refuting. “I don’t understand,” she said, feeling strangely breathless, but her voice was hard enough to convey the weight of her frustration. The constant struggle for power between those who didn’t care about the civilians who were caught in the crossfire — or worse, those who wilfully sought to destroy whatever little pockets of peace still existed in the world, for whatever reason…she’d never understand that, no matter how hard she tried.

At the heels of that thought came another, and when she lifted her gaze now she found that the question came without hesitation. “What about your motivations?” she asked Dragon, still regarding her coolly from across the cabin.

Before he could speak, Ace made a noise, and Makino looked down to find him blinking awake, small features drawing together with familiar consternation at the rude awakening. Running her hand over his head, she murmured gentle assurances she didn’t feel, and lamented that being too young to understand what was happening meant she couldn't explain. All she had were her small mother's things; little comforts that all felt like pitiful offerings now.

“I have my share of grievances with the Blackbeard Pirates,” Dragon told her then, and when she looked up it was to find that something dark had settled across his features, and the downward slant of his mouth sent a shiver shooting up her spine. “But as for saving _you_ ,” he continued calmly, and there was a moment where he appeared to retreat within himself, but it lasted only a second before it was gone.

“Twelve years ago,” he said then, meeting her gaze, his voice a deep, resonant drum, but unreadable insofar as what he was feeling was concerned. “A pirate saved my son from the jaws of a sea king.”

It took Makino a moment to realise what he was saying, and— _Shanks_ , she thought then, startled, but before she could open her mouth to speak that sharp gaze had flickered to Ace, awake and fussing on the mattress. “Consider this a favour returned,” Dragon said. "Or a debt repaid, if you would rather."

She realised she had to be wearing all her emotions on her face. And she was tempted to press the issue — to say that it didn’t explain why they’d taken the whole village, if that was indeed all it was; a favour for a favour. And if he knew the story, he had to know that Shanks' actions had never asked for retribution in the first place. But even if she couldn’t read his expression, she had a feeling she knew the answer to her own question — that there was more of Luffy in this man than his demeanour suggested.

But—there was something else, a tremor of unease within her as she watched him now, his shadow thrown large over the bulkhead by the cabin’s lone kerosene lamp.

“Something tells me there’s more to it than what you’re telling me,” Makino said, tone wary. Ace was fully awake beside her now, dark eyes blinking curiously into the low light, and she rested her palm across his stomach, worrying the fabric of his pyjamas between her fingers.

She thought she saw something like a rueful smile ghost across those severe features, although it might just have been a trick of the light.

“I had hoped you might stay with us for a while,” Dragon said, the words offered with unusual care, although this wasn’t out of any courtesy to her, Makino felt, but she couldn't discern just what it was that felt off about the way he said it.

“Stay?”

But watching his expression now, she had a terrible suspicion that she knew where he was headed.

Her breath felt light in her chest, and it was hard keeping her thoughts on a straight path, but, “I think I’d like to talk to my husband,” she said, the words surprisingly forceful. Shanks’ vivre card sat, tucked away in the pocket of her dressing gown, and it was like she could feel it, weighing heavy as a stone against her heart.

Dragon’s expression didn’t so much as twitch. “I don’t think that will be possible at this time," he told her.

She didn’t know if it was anger or something else that pushed up her throat, but the words came, and she was relieved when there was no hint of a quaver in her voice. “What do you mean by that?”

He was looking at her now, and she had the uncomfortable impression of being assessed—as though he was judging her merit, although she couldn’t for the life of her even guess what her use might be for someone like him.

“We are all pawns, Makino-san,” Dragon said then. “It’s been a slow game, and it’s time certain pieces stopped being idle.”

Nerves frayed, she was almost tempted to snap that she didn’t have the patience for metaphors when he continued, no doubt reading the look on her face for what it was. “There are pirates on these seas with the power to change the world, but all they do is keep the scales from tipping, complacent in their quiet corners while the rest of us fight. And so long that they don't overstep their boundaries, the World Government leaves them be. In that regard, they are no better than the Warlords.”

He met her gaze then, and it took all her strength not to drop her eyes with the sheer weight of the conviction she found in them. “You’re not ignorant to the sway your husband holds,” he told her. “Or what he could accomplish, if given the right incentive.”

 _Incentive_. And the way he said the word had her heart dropping into the pit of her stomach.

Her chest felt heavy, and it was difficult forcing her breaths out. And his words were slow in settling, but it was dawning on her now just what it was he was telling her, and when realisation finally sank into her heart—Fuschia burning bright against the night sky, an image she doubted she’d ever be able to wipe from her memory—it was with a terrible, condemning weight.

“Red-Hair has been biding his time long enough,” Dragon said. Ace’s heartbeat sounded suddenly loud in the cramped room. Or that might just be her own, Makino realised, the thought oddly detached. “And I suspect,” he added, with an almost eerie calm that left her short of breath—

“That this might be what is necessary for him to finally act.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dragon is one of those incredibly fascinating characters where I’m not entirely sure he’d actually resort to something like this, but at the same time I’m…curious? He’s clearly willing to go to great lengths for the revolution, and I’m guessing we’ve yet to see just how far. That’s not to say he’d enjoy it, but you know — all's fair etc.
> 
> I'm not gonna lie though, morally ambiguous characters open up for a lot of fic potential.


	2. pawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to all of you who've shown interest in this story — you keep me going! I'd hoped maybe one person might want to read this, but there are more of you than I'd imagined there would be, and you don't know how happy that makes me!
> 
> Oh, and you might have noticed that I've changed the title. The first one didn't sit right, I wanted something that echoed Makino's developing role in this a bit more, as well as something more fitting the Odyssey-esque theme I've got going for the Shanties series.

Sabo came to find her shortly after Dragon left.

Ace was awake and sitting up, cooing softly and playing with the edge of the blanket, and Makino spared only a glance towards the doorway this time, a mixture of wariness and quiet fury lodged like a rock in her chest, and that didn’t allow her shoulders to relax, even as she watched that blond head duck beneath the low frame. And she was _exhausted,_ the events of the night having finally had the chance to settle, although her conversation with Dragon was taking a bit longer to digest.

She didn’t want to consider it, but at the same time she couldn’t help it, listening to her son’s wordless noises; the tiny, endearing gestures that she’d come to know over the past few months. Shanks had missed some of them—like when he’d first learned to sit up without assistance, and the eager, grabby hands that wanted to touch everything—and the realisation wedged like a knife between her ribs, that if the people keeping her had their way, he’d think them both lost forever.

It was difficult coming to terms with it, but then she was the one with the vivre card; the physical assurance of his well-being, somewhere across the seas. What did he have? The broken ruins of a seaside village, and whatever the press decided to make of it.

She felt sick thinking about it, and more so with the keen knowledge that there was nothing she could do, stuck on a ship with the most wanted man in the world, and a baby less than a year old.

“Makino-san,” Sabo said then, after a lull had passed and she still hadn’t looked at him. He’d forgone the old endearment, and she looked up now to see that he’d stopped in the doorway, his movements careful and deliberate, as though asking for permission.

And she was reminded of the boy she’d known with his toothy smiles and his too-polite answers; such a vivid contrast to Ace and Luffy, who’d tried to emulate it but who'd never quite managed.

She knew he must have spoken with Dragon, and there was some satisfaction to be found, Makino supposed, in the fact that he didn’t seem to have been aware of his leader’s intentions from the get-go.

He proved her suspicions correct a moment later, when he said, “I didn’t know this was what Dragon-san had in mind.”

Ace made a happy little noise, the sound entirely at odds with the turmoil that churned within her, but she watched as Sabo’s eyes tracked the sound, a smile pulling at his mouth.

And she’d never been good at keeping her anger, Makino mused, as she felt it bleed from her shoulders now. Realistically, she knew it hadn’t been his decision. And he’d been the one to get her. He was the reason she’d gotten out in time, and that her son was alive and safe.

“How did you know?”

The question seemed to startle him out of whatever thoughts had claimed his attention, and he drew his gaze from where Ace had shoved the edge of the blanket in his mouth, back to Makino.

“About Fuschia,” she elaborated, and watched something in his expression tighten. “You said you’d explain. I’d like to know how you knew.”

He was quiet for a long moment, and she had the thought that he might not tell her after all, but then, “We’ve been keeping an eye on the Blackbeard Pirates for a while,” he said. “We intercepted a message. Dragon-san was the one who made the decision to come.”

She remembered what Dragon had told her — a favour for a favour, although the words were empty things in truth, so long that Shanks thought they were dead.

 _A pawn_. That was what he’d called her. Little more than a game piece, to be moved and discarded at the whim of whoever controlled the board.

She needed to get away. She couldn’t imagine living a single minute thinking her son and husband lost to her forever; the thought made her chest constrict just imagining it. And if what Dragon had planned came to pass and she still had no way of letting Shanks know—if something happened to him while he still thought they were  _dead—_

“Could you at least tell me where we’re going?” she asked, hoping her voice didn’t sound as breathless as she feared, and watched as Sabo's gaze shifted back to hers. She lifted a hand to the cabin. “It’s not like I can do much with the information.”

She wondered if he bought it. She knew she was a terrible liar, but even if he didn’t buy her compliance, Makino hoped he would think her odds of escaping so small, he would tell her anyway.

But before he could answer, a thought slipped in; a memory several weeks old, of a newspaper headline. She hadn’t considered it too closely at the time, searching the papers for entirely different news, but she remembered it now.

 _Baltigo_. The base of the Revolutionary Army, destroyed by—

“As of this moment, we don’t have a base of operations,” Sabo told her, something pained shifting across his expression. And she found in his gaze a mirror to her own thoughts, thinking of her home, and what was left of it; a kindred, longing sorrow that left an acrid taste on her tongue.

But there was another feeling pushing itself to the forefront of her mind, taking in his words as he gave them, and the implications. Helplessness clawed up her chest, although—she didn’t know what good she’d thought being on land would do. Maybe somewhere at the back of her mind she’d fancied herself the idea that she could escape somehow, but out at sea, and with her son as small as he was…

“So that’s it?" She hated that her voice shook. "I’m supposed to just sit here on my hands like a hostage?”

His brows furrowed. “You’re not a hostage, Makino.” He didn’t sound affronted at the suggestion, but although they were gently spoken the words were surprisingly forceful. And that was worse, she thought. Perhaps she’d have felt better if he’d treated her differently — if he’d been unapologetic or even gleeful at her predicament. But between Dragon’s too-calm and logical ruthlessness and Sabo’s terrible and earnest _understanding,_ it was all getting to be a little too much.

And in that moment she missed Shanks fiercely — missed the way his laughter always had of making her feel better, no matter the situation. That earnest enjoyment he took in everything, and the easy confidence with which he greeted every obstacle thrown in his path.

She feared how he might greet this one, remembering keenly the day their son had come into the world, when she’d almost left it. She thought of the slow and painful days of her recovery, when he’d barely left her side, and how long it had taken to wipe the shadows off his face. She’d been the one to ease his worries then, with smiles and poorly timed jokes — a terrible influence she’d blamed him for on more than one occasion, but for all the grief she’d given him for it, she knew it had helped.

 _Don’t do anything foolish_ , she thought now, wondering if the plea could somehow reach him, and she didn’t know if it was a sob or something harder that threatened to shove up her throat — something like a choked, furious scream. _Don’t do anything foolish, or reckless, just—just wait for me, please. I’ll get us out of this. Somehow I will._

But even as she steeled herself, she was aware of the creaking tilt of the ship against the waves, out on open water with nowhere to run.

“You can call it what you like,” she said then, “but the fact remains that I’m here against my will.” She looked at Sabo, watching her pensively. “I still don’t understand what he thinks keeping me here is going to accomplish.”

Except that she did know. She knew exactly what it was Dragon was hoping would happen, but putting it into words…

Sabo met her gaze, his own entirely level. “He’s hoping an altercation between Red-Hair and Blackbeard might provoke the World Government to intervene. That it’ll finally get things moving.”

There was a lump sitting at the bottom of her throat, and her words sounded thick when she managed to force them out. “Have you considered that not everyone wants to participate in this all-out war you’re instigating?”

His expression was carefully unreadable, as though the words barely fazed him. “It’s not something that you can opt out of. It’s going to affect everyone. This concerns the whole world — that’s what the revolution _is_.”

It would have been kinder, Makino thought, if the words had sounded pre-rehearsed — if he didn’t speak them with that calm conviction. It was the same she’d found in his leader’s expression, although not as chilling. This was a fiercer thing, but it was a fire that simmered rather than consumed everything in its path; controlled, not mindlessly destructive.

Then again, maybe that was the most dangerous alternative. Maybe it would have been easier to swallow, if his belief in their cause had been all wild, reckless bluster.

She watched her son, dozing now where he’d curled up on the mattress, his earlier energy having trickled back out, leaving his eyelids heavy. Earnest in sleep, and entirely trusting of the world he was leaving behind to pursue the one in his dreams, the way children should be. Although Makino wondered if he’d remember — if, when he was grown, a piece of what had happened tonight would remain, a scar on his memory.

Or was it naive, imagining that to be the worst that would befall him? Like it had been naive of her to hope he would be spared what she’d known was coming? Shanks had warned her, after all. Garp had, too, and even Mihawk. And of course she’d _known_ , but she’d still harboured that foolish hope that somehow, her son wouldn’t need to be touched by it; that the fates would be kind, to a life that new and innocent.

But there were other children, Makino knew. Children just as new and innocent as hers, touched by that world before they were even brought into it, and warped by it until it was all they knew, until _peace_ was as fanciful a word as _pirate_ was in her calm corner of the sea. She doubted they slept as soundly as her son, the ones who had no one to protect them — to fight for them. Didn’t they deserve the revolution?

But even as she considered that hard truth, her fingers curled towards her palms, knuckles white with the strain as she thought of Fuschia, _gone_  — and Shanks, who’d never desired war but who’d greeted the future with the grave knowledge that it was coming, regardless. She hadn’t imagined for one moment that he’d stay on the sidelines, as Dragon had callously suggested, and she greeted her anger now as it met her — anger that they thought him so self-serving they’d resort to something like this to prompt a reaction.

“Wage your war, then,” she told Sabo, the words too calm for what she was feeling. “I don’t know what the world is like, the one that you’re fighting. I’m lucky that way.” Touching her hand to the crown of Ace’s head, the soft strands of his hair slipping between her fingers, she tried not to focus on how much they were shaking. “My world was a quiet one, before you showed up. And I’m grateful that my son is alive, but what you’ve done, dragging my family into this to further your own agenda?”

She didn’t look at Ace now, red hair mussed and his breaths heavy and honest. Instead, her gaze entirely level, she met Sabo’s. “I will _never_ forgive you for that.”

And before he could respond, “And you should bear this in mind,” Makino added quietly. It almost didn’t sound like her, the voice that spoke now, and there was something terrible sitting at the base of her ribcage, threatening to burst. She couldn't rightly tell what feeling it was, if it was fury or grief, but it allowed her to find the strength to speak, pushing the next words off her tongue—

“If the world thinks Fuschia is gone, so does Luffy.”

She watched his expression change, and he didn’t bother tempering his shock, his mouth slackening as the truth of what she’d told him sank with the damning weight she knew the statement carried.

And there was a flicker of something within her then, a realisation that came to settle around her heart. It was kindred to what she’d felt, holding her son for the very first time; that unshakeable conviction that she’d do whatever the world demanded to keep him away from harm.

To the Revolution, a single life meant less than the lives of many. It had to be that way, for the cause they'd pledged their own lives. And she wondered if Dragon had ever had the chance to hold his newborn son; to feel that little heartbeat, and the sense that your entire world now existed within the circle of your arms. Somehow, she doubted it.

But looking at Sabo, she remembered a kind boy who’d wiped his little brother’s tears and patched his scraped knees. A boy who’d barely been old enough to fend for himself, but who’d smiled through his own pains and tended to others first.

Shanks had always claimed she’d make a formidable pirate for how well her guileless nature complemented her coercive skills; that it was a sailor’s folly to forget that still waters ran deep, and that the unknown depths might hide terrible things.

Well, then. Let them see how deep hers ran. She wasn’t the only pawn that could be moved in this game.

And anyway — they were the ones who’d brought her into play.

—

 

He was dreaming, caught in the quiet lull between sleep and wakefulness, the sharp truth of a too-early morning softened at the edges by the kisses marking a path from his collar along the length of his throat, tentative at first, as she was likely to be even after all their years, but an air of impatience sat in the playful nip of her teeth along his jaw.

His grin stretched, a warm, lazy thing, and when he spoke sleep roughened the words, “In a hurry, my dear?”

“Our son sleeps,” his wife said, kissing the words to his skin, and he felt her smile, a gently wicked thing. “We’re good for at least half an hour, if we’re efficient.”

His own smile was fierce now, Shanks knew. “I can work wonders within that timeframe.”

He felt her laughter, the soft reverberations from where she sat astride his hips. “A point of pride for you?”

“Well, ever since we got a son who seems hell-bent on not getting any younger siblings any time soon, I’ve needed to adjust my skillset somewhat.”

Makino hummed, sounding entirely pleased, and as she sat up he chased the arch of her spine with his fingers. And he knew the map of her body with his eyes shut — the length of her back, and the width of her hips; the stretch marks from her pregnancy, and he heard her breath hitch as he moved his hand lower, her name perched on the tip of his tongue, “Makino—”

The knock on his door tore through the dream, and then she was gone, vanished from under his fingertips, nothing left in her wake, not even the lingering warmth of her skin, and his hand twitched with longing for it as Shanks opened his eyes to the familiar ceiling above his bunk. Silver sunlight filtered in through the porthole, stretching languid shafts of light towards the far corners of his cabin, illuminating the maps on his desk, and the bottle of whiskey holding down one corner.

The knocking persisted, a curiously insistent sound, and, “What?” he groaned, kneading his knuckles against his brow. His frustration clung like the thought of her, and he grumbled under his breath at the interruption.

“Boss,” said the voice, entirely devoid of humour—the kind that heralded business, and Shanks sighed, pushing himself off the mattress.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming. Give me a minute."

Seated on the edge of the bunk, he rubbed the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes, remnants of the dream still lingering, but his wife was miles away and his cabin quiet. And he’d grown used to interruptions when he'd been home last, but there were no keening wails here to drag him out of sleep in the middle of the night, or at entirely inopportune times, but it was a different sort of longing, the one he found following at the heels of that thought.

A few months since he'd left Fuschia now, and it occupied his thoughts more often than not these days, the things he was missing. He wondered how they were doing — if Ace slept through the night now, and allowed his mother the same. And if he did, he hoped there weren't other concerns keeping her from sleep. She'd been worried when they'd parted ways last, for him more than for herself, and the thought brought on a surge of familiar fondness, even as he felt the keen edge it carried with it now, remembering Teach's call. He hadn't heard anything from Rayleigh, but then he hadn't expected to so soon. And anyway, in this case Shanks suspected that no news equalled good news.

Flexing his hand, he pushed his hair out of his eyes, vision having adjusted to the muted light—and okay, so it wasn’t as early as he’d imagined, and Ben would likely be the first to point that out, but with the nature of his awakening it might as well have been the middle of the damn night, he mused sourly.

He spared a glance at his empty bunk, taking a moment to imagine the shape of her against the sheets, as it would have been if she’d been there in truth — the drape of her dark hair across the pillow, and the arc of her hip beneath the blanket. And it might have been a kinder morning if he’d been allowed to wake beside her, but considering it now Shanks doubted it would have helped in getting him _out_ of bed.

His wife in his thoughts, his smile sat wry and pleased on his mouth as he rose to his feet, arching his back in a stretch that shook loose a groan from deep in his chest, as he made to pull on his pants.

Searching for a shirt to wear, Shanks glanced at the bottle of whiskey on his desk. The contents glowed a deep burnished copper, and threw watery shadows across the navigator's tools scattered over the maps. An old vintage, he was saving it for when he came home, a tradition that dated back years, preceding their marriage and their son. His last homecoming had seen her pregnant, and they'd forgone the drinks in favour of other activities, but the bottle still sat on his desk, a reminder of things to come.

Smile widening at the prospect, his gaze moved, across the maps to the stack of books sitting there; the ones he’d collected so far. There were a few cheap but cared-for paperbacks from a rather raunchy series he knew she enjoyed but, gun to her head, would deny the association. There was also a first edition of a historical novel so dry he'd fallen asleep one chapter in, but if anything, he knew she'd appreciate the binding, the supple leather and the gilded edges.

But at the top of the pile sat a volume smaller than the rest, his most recent acquisition, and he’d thumbed through it enough times to know the story by heart, and the letters, large and bold for young eyes unused to the practice of reading. Every other page was illustrated by hand, depicting fanciful creatures from islands in the sky and below the sea. And it would be years yet before their son would have any interest in it, and before his first response would be something other than trying to shove it in his mouth, but he’d been unable to let the idea go when he’d come across it.

And anyway, even if Ace was still too young to appreciate it, there was someone else he knew who would.

He could imagine her delight; that tell-tale brightness in her eyes, widening at the sight of it, and the reverent touch of her fingers to the pages, tracing the gold filigree and the watercolour illustrations.

Then her eyes would turn to him, fond accusation sparking in them, and,  _This looks expensive,_ Makino would say, the words wary, but her barely-contained smile would betray her, Shanks knew. _It’s not loot, is it? Please tell me there isn't some great Government-funded library that’s missing an irreplaceable piece, Shanks, I will make you take it back._

He’d profess his innocence, of course — would kiss it against her laughing mouth until she yielded, the book’s origins quite forgotten.

Another knock then, this one more tentative than the last, and, “Captain,” Yasopp said now. His voice sounded strange, and Shanks let his fingers drop from the book.

Grabbing his shirt, he made for the door, grumbling as he shoved his arm through the sleeve, the movement old and familiar from practise. And if he’d been of a clearer mind—if the image of her hadn’t clung so insistently to the forefront of his thoughts, a reluctance to let go of it that he’d never get rid of, Shanks suspected—he might have picked up on the mood sooner.

He stopped just beyond the doorway, blinking into the morning, and the sight of every head in his crew turning towards him. And he took in their stricken expressions, grief and disbelief in equal measure echoed in every hard line of every familiar face.

Despite himself, he felt the corners of his mouth quirking upwards, his brows furrowing with honest bemusement, but even as he spoke the words, the remark an entirely knee-jerk reaction, there was an inkling at the back of his mind that something was _wrong_.

“Sheesh, guys. Who died?”

 


	3. queen

For the span of a breath, no one moved, and the sense of wrongness he’d felt stepping out onto the deck grew until it was difficult breathing past it, like something had cinched tight around his chest, cutting off his air.

Shanks allowed his gaze to sweep across the faces of those gathered on deck — found some of them dropping their eyes from his, others turning away, as though they couldn't bear looking at him, and when he spoke it was like he had to drag the words out.

“What’s going on?”

Some of them exchanged glances, and he _knew_ —he felt it in his gut, in his bones—not just that something was wrong, but that he knew who it involved. Because who else could it be, to prompt this kind of reaction from his entire crew?

“Shanks.”

The distinct lack of an epithet of any kind made something physically recoil within him, and he’d never been one for enforcing formalities, especially among his men, but that it should come from _Ben—_

His best friend of many years was before him then, a rolled-up newspaper gripped between white-knuckled fingers, and for a moment the sight was such that he couldn’t drag his eyes away.

And aside from his name he hadn’t said a single word, but Shanks heard them all, Ben’s entire posture all but screaming them, but he had to see for himself — had to see so he could refute it, because he couldn’t believe— _wouldn’t_ believe—until he saw it with his own eyes.

“Ben, give me the paper.”

Ben didn’t slacken his grip on it, or move to do anything else, and for someone who didn't know him his seemingly unshakable composure might have been infuriating, but Shanks saw the things that terrible calm hid, although the truth was anything but a mercy.

Ben's expression was unyielding. “You sure you want to see this?”

“Ben.” And he didn’t care that his voice wavered, or that the order sounded like anything but. “Give me the paper.”

It was with a keen reluctance that he finally relented, and for a moment all Shanks could do was stare at the offering, before reaching to take it. He saw his hand shaking, the pale mark from where he’d worn his wedding ring gone now, after months with it around his neck, out at sea under the sun.

Turning it over, he took in the front page — read it once, twice, all the while willing his eyes to take in the words, to make sense of what he was reading, except that he couldn’t, because if he accepted them for what they were, that meant—

“Rayleigh,” Shanks said, the name thrown out like a lifeline, and his voice sounded hoarse to his own ears. He looked to Ben, gaze searching—pleading for affirmation. “He got them out in time.”

But he knew the answer, even before he saw the look passing between Ben and Yasopp.

There were hands on his shoulders, and the deck was unforgiving under his knees, but he had no strength to stand. And he couldn’t hear what they were saying, if they were saying anything at all. The white noise pressing against his skull turned every coherent thought to madness, and it was all he could do to remind his body to keep breathing, his vision blurring until he could barely see past the tears.

He’d once felt like the ground had been yanked from underneath him, the day he’d spotted her on the Fuschia docks, her smile shy and clever and her hands pressed over the curve of her pregnant stomach. And there’d been a moment where he’d felt elevated, suspended between belief and disbelief, and momentarily unable to come to terms with what was in front of him.

It had been joy that had brought him back down that day, and joy that had rooted his feet to the earth, sea legs steady even after a long voyage as he'd pulled her close and known with his entire being the sheer, boundless happiness that life would never be the same.

Now it was something else that dragged him down, heavy like an anchor looped around his neck, a sailor's noose and a perversion of the conviction he'd felt when he'd first realised he was going to be a father, knowing that from the moment his son was born he'd never be anything else. And there was no water filling his lungs, but he was drowning anyway, stones in his pockets and his heart the heaviest of all.

The newspaper lay, half-crumpled on the deck, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the page—the photograph, the words, all of it bleeding together, but all he could see when he closed his eyes from the onslaught was the way Makino had looked at him when he’d left, their son tucked against her chest, and the small half-smile she’d worn that hadn’t managed to hide her worry.

He thought of the dream then, resurfacing like an ugly premonition now, but her touch was long gone, and when he looked for her voice all he found were old, cruel words, tenderly spoken on the heels of a day that had brought both the happiest and the most terrifying experience of his life.

 _Silly man,_ she'd said, a promise in her eyes, and the touch of her hand to his cheek.

_I’m not going anywhere._

The chain with his wedding ring had slipped free of his shirt, and he locked his eyes on it now, the too-polished gleam of it cheerfully mocking. There was barely a scratch in the metal, a stark reminder of its lack of use, but most of all it was a reminder that, for all their precautions, it had done nothing in the end.

He’d thought he’d known hell, watching his captain walk to the gallows, his head held high, and his own hands helpless at his sides. And he’d breathed the fire and brimstone of the battlefield at Marineford, watching the depravity of the world cut open like a vicious, pestilent wound and thinking  _it can’t get any worse than this._

But there was no living hell compared to this one, no cheering crowd and no broken battlefield around him, only the gentle sea breeze, and the deceptively calm waters of a sea that took and took and _took_ , heart and hope and every last sliver of happiness, until there was nothing left of him to yield.

—

 

“I spy—”

“No.”

“C’mon, Nami!”

“No.”

“I spy—”

“ _No_.”

Luffy stuck his tongue out, and she ignored it, closing her eyes behind her sunglasses as she reclined in her chair, stubbornly intent on claiming a moment of peace for herself. It was almost too much to hope for on a ship like theirs; a minute to breathe between battles, when lately all they seemed to be doing was move from one fight to the next. The New World hadn’t promised glory, but the sheer ugliness of it had still caught them off guard, for all their careful preparation.

Then again, you never could prepare for war, could you?

The messenger carrying the news arrived then, and she batted Luffy away from the bedraggled bird with the rolled-up paper, reaching a reluctant hand for her coin-purse when the creature gave her a _look_ that quite plainly said her penchant for pilfering their change was well-documented. A ‘yeah, we’ve all heard about  _you’_ sort of look that was all too familiar, but which didn’t bring her much satisfaction now that she had to actually pay up.

Handing over the coin, she grumbled under her breath as the bird took flight, and gave Luffy another whack when he tried to reach for it first. “I paid for it, so I get dibs. You can read it later.”

He pulled a grimace. “ _Stingy_.”

Thankfully, a distraction arrived in the form of Sanji with food, and she was left to enjoy her newspaper in peace.

Unfurling it in her lap, her eyes skimmed the front page, before they halted on the headline, thrown large and imposing against the grey backdrop.

“Hey, Luffy,” Nami said, feeling the words sitting heavy in her throat.

“Ah?”

“What was your hometown called again?”

“Fuschia,” he spoke the word around a mouthful of food. “Why?”

His eyes glanced across the newspaper in her lap, and before she could stop herself she’d pulled it to her chest, hiding the front page. And she saw the moment he realised that something was wrong, and mentally berated herself for her poor reaction.

“Nami,” Luffy said then, voice suddenly devoid of his usual cheer. “What’s in the paper?”

Nami saw Zoro’s eye crack open from where he’d been dozing, and judging by the eerie hush that had washed across the deck, he wasn’t the only one who’d picked up on the subtle shift in mood.

She didn’t relent her grip on the newspaper. “Luffy—”

“Why did you ask about Fuschia, Nami?”

There was a slight quaver in his voice now, one she recognised, and she knew what he was really asking, but she couldn’t find her voice to answer.

He held out his hand then, his next question loud in the gesture, and Nami’s grip tightened on the paper, something like defiance surging up in response, knowing what allowing him to read it would mean. She thought back to a time where she’d vowed never to let him go through what had happened with his brother again, and felt with an almost delirious conviction that if she just kept the paper from him, he wouldn't need to know.

But support didn’t mean shielding him from the truth, and she felt her shoulders sinking with the realisation that she had no other choice. And reluctance made her limbs like lead, but she handed the paper over, watching him take it with uncharacteristic care, unfolding it to reveal the front page.

He’d always been entirely too expressive, and she watched with a sinking heart now as he read through the article — first one time, and then again, and she tracked the passage of his thoughts across his features, drawing together now, a mixture of confusion and the first beginnings of grief.

His voice was rough when he spoke, “What—” He lifted his gaze to meet hers. “What’s this supposed to be?”

She couldn’t find her voice. She could only shake her head, and when she saw him look at the paper again she had the urge to rip it out of his hands, although she didn’t know what good it would do.

“Oi, Luffy,” Sanji called then, from the open door to the galley. Behind him, the smell of breakfast cooking drifted out into the sunlight, carried on the breeze. “Someone on the Den Den Mushi for you.” And Nami watched his gaze roam across the deck, brow furrowing at the sight of their expressions. Removing his cigarette, “It’s Garp,” he added at length, and with a care that told her he’d picked up on that something was wrong, and that there was likely a connection between the two.

Dropping the newspaper like it had burned him, Luffy strode toward the galley, and Nami scrambled out of her chair to follow, sparing a last, worried glance to the crumpled paper before she pushed through the doorway, the others at her heels.

Luffy was standing in front of the Den Den Mushi, and when he spoke there was a thick quality to his voice, like a sob had lodged itself in his throat and wouldn’t yield. “Gramps?”

For a moment, all they heard over the line was silence. Then, spoken over a sigh — _“Hey, kid.”_ A brief pause followed, and, _“You heard, then,"_ Garp said.

Luffy opened his mouth but couldn’t seem to form the words, but then Nami didn’t know what words needed saying; couldn’t imagine what she’d say or do, if she’d been the one presented with the news. Her sister calling, or Gen-san.

The thought wedged itself at the base of her ribcage. The paper had only mentioned Luffy’s hometown, but Cocoyashi wasn’t that far. And it felt wrong to worry about her own village, her own people, watching Luffy now, except the thought clung with an insistence she couldn’t shake, and with the pressing silence there was something like a scream building in her chest.

“Why?” she asked then, when it seemed Luffy wouldn’t be asking anything. She swallowed. “Why Fuschia?”

She had a few ideas, but none of them made any real sense. Dawn Island was a curious focal point of destinies — Luffy, Dragon the Revolutionary, Garp, Ace, Sabo…And from his recent animosity toward the Revolutionary Army, it wasn’t impossible to imagine Blackbeard striking where he thought it would hurt the most.

Except that Fuschia was _Luffy’s_ hometown, as she’d understood it, not Sabo’s. Maybe he’d been hoping to get to Dragon? She only vaguely remembered Blackbeard from their brief encounter in person, but so far out of his way it seemed an odd target, even if Luffy was in fact the intended mark.

The pause that followed her question felt like minutes, but,  _“It’s personal,”_ Garp said then, and although that answered one question—that he wasn’t likely to go after any of their other hometowns—it didn’t even begin to answer any of the others she felt pushing up her throat now.

“I don’t understand,” Luffy said, and Nami had never heard his voice sound so _small_. “What—” He shook his head, and when he spoke next it had hardened, the words hoarse with tears, “What did they do?”

There was silence over the line, and Nami’s hands twitched at her sides. The others were quiet, but glancing at Zoro she found his features drawn tight across his face, and Sanji had gone eerily still. But the downwards slant of Robin’s mouth spoke the loudest of all; the shadows in her eyes old, kindred things.

 _“I guess you were a little too young to notice back then,”_ Garp said then, after a lull. The Den Den Mushi drew a shuddering breath, and the laugh that choked out of it held no humour, as he added roughly, " _Mah, you probably wouldn’t have picked up on it now either, knowing you.”_

Confusion pulled at Luffy’s features. “Picked up on what?”

There was another pause, outwardly pensive, although Nami suspected that Garp was trying to collect himself. Then,  _“You ever stopped to wonder why Red-Hair kept coming back, twelve years ago?”_

Nami watched as Luffy’s brows furrowed, expression one of familiar bafflement. “Shanks?" he asked. "What’s Shanks got to do with anything?”

The line was silent, the Den Den Mushi staring listlessly into the air, and for a moment Nami wondered if Garp was actually waiting for Luffy to put the pieces together, when even she couldn’t follow where he was going. Aside from being one of the strongest pirates in the New World, all she knew about the man who’d given Luffy his straw hat was that he’d been the occasional visitor during a year of his childhood — which, when put into question like that, did seem like a curious thing. Even in the East Blue, which didn’t require a log pose to navigate, the effort seemed excessive for any pirate, unless they had family—

It clicked, and her breath caught—the sound enough that it drew the attentions of the others, but Nami was too preoccupied to notice. Because that had to be what Garp was suggesting. The age-old reason that could prompt someone to overlook just about any obstacle, let alone a few seas’ worth of distance.

Luffy glanced towards her, expression wrought and eyes full of questions, but before she could say anything—

 _“Makino,”_ Garp said, dragging Luffy’s gaze back to the snail, and Nami watched his brows shoot up in surprise. And when he spoke next his voice was almost too quiet to be heard.

“Ma-chan?”

Nami recognised the name. The barmaid in Luffy’s village, who featured in enough of his childhood stories to have let her know she’d been more than just part of the local tapestry.

_Whoa, Nami, you’re really good with a needle! Back home Makino used to fix all my clothes. I kinda feel bad for tearing them all the time, but Ace was worse!_

_Sanji! D’you know if you could make this—ah, stew thing? I don’t have the recipe, but there’s meat in it. And something else. Probably. It’s really good though, Makino used to make it for me all the time!_

_Man, Robin has a loooot of books—even more than Makino! There’re no shirtless guys on the covers of these ones, though._

_Shanks was always being stupid around Ma-chan. I thought he was cool most of the time, but he was kind of a dork. She probably just laughed at his jokes to make him feel better—she's nice like that._

A sigh, full of old grief. _“They got married, right after the war,”_ Garp said, and Nami’s heart sank even before he added, _“Had a kid last year.”_

Luffy’s mouth was working, but no sound was coming out. Then, “Ma-chan and—”

There was a pause, and then the full realisation of what Garp was saying seemed to dawn on him, and for the first time in their acquaintance Nami felt no fond irritation at his slowness. Instead the expression that came to settle on his face made her heart constrict, like her chest had caved in on itself.

“No,” Luffy said, quietly.

 _“It’s a damn old grievance,”_ Garp was saying then, and the anger that drummed along the words was a terrible thing. _“Whatever’s been festering between Red-Hair and Blackbeard all these years.”_ A hoarse sigh, and when he spoke next Nami couldn’t tell if it held more anger or remorse, but the guilt was palpable, _“Still._ _Never imagined he’d go this far.”_

Luffy was shaking his head, but he offered no verbal refusal, and the fact was so unnervingly uncharacteristic, she had the sudden urge to snap at him to _shout_.

 _“Pirates like Red-Hair don’t have families,”_ Garp continued, and these words were old things, like they’d been spoken so many times they’d almost lost their meaning. And Garp sounded suddenly, achingly tired. _“Not ones the world knows about, anyway. Roger knew it. Red-Hair knew it. Best case, they’re leverage. Worst case…”_ he trailed off.

Nami felt her heart clenching, remembering another newspaper, several years old now, but she could conjure the image without trouble, like it had made a permanent place for itself in her memory. A freckled face, thrown large for the world to see and condemn, and the ruins of the battlefield that had spat Luffy back out without mercy.

 _“They named him Ace,”_ Garp said then, and Nami heard Luffy’s breath shudder out, an almost visceral reaction. _“Their kid. Thought—thought you’d want to know. Makino would have wanted you to.”_

 _“Luffy,”_ Garp added, before any of them could say anything, and this time his voice had changed — it was harder, but it did little to hide the constant undercurrent of grief that coated the words, although he didn't seem to be trying very hard to conceal it. _"This is pivotal. Whatever hell’s unleashed now, whatever Red-Hair does, it’ll change things. And it ain’t gonna be pretty.”_

“Gramps—”

 _“I called to tell you,”_ Garp cut him off. _“If you’re smart, you’ll stay outta this.”_

Luffy looked livid now, and when he snapped, his voice was hoarse, a half-strangled shout, but the defiant edge in it was desperately welcoming, Nami found. “Like hell!”

A sigh shivered over the line, and even though Nami heard every ounce of the anguish she found mirrored on Luffy’s face in the sound, there was something else too, something almost like _relief,_ and,  _“Yeah,”_ Garp said, tiredly.

_“I was afraid you'd say that.”_

 

—

 

The sea was quiet, stretching out on all sides under clear skies that kissed the horizon, and yielding nothing else — not even a speck of green, or anything indicating that they were approaching land.

Ace’s head rested against her chest, his earlier restlessness having relented when she’d stepped out on deck, leaving him unusually calm. The combination of fresh air and the gently rocking movements of the ship seemed to have a curiously lulling effect, although Makino regretted that she couldn’t say the same for herself, feeling keenly the occasional curl of nausea as the prow cut through the unresisting waters.

“A born sailor,” she murmured, touching her fingertips to his hair and earning a soft coo in response. Her next words sat heavy on her tongue. “Your dad would be happy to hear that.” She tried for a smile, even knowing he couldn’t see it, but it tugged at her mouth like a grimace. “Let’s make sure we tell him next time we see him, hmm?”

Ace didn’t respond, and neither did the sea, and Makino sighed, finding no peace of mind in the scenic view, even if it was a vast improvement from the stuffy cabin belowdecks. Out of her nightclothes now, they’d dug up some things for her to wear, and she’d been served breakfast in the galley with the rest of the crew. And she hadn’t been surprised when they’d let her out of her cabin that morning; apparently, they were still set on continuing the charade of guest and most gracious host, and Makino had been too tired to argue the matter.

It was also a painfully clear statement of how slim they thought her chances of escape were, allowing her to walk about freely and without supervision.

The sea breeze was a small mercy on her upset stomach, and she let it fill her lungs until it hurt before allowing her shoulders to sink with her exhale, rubbing small circles on Ace’s back and feeling the soft rise and fall of his chest under her palm. Little things that kept her grounded when she felt like she might break to pieces; reminders that she had more than herself to answer to, now more than ever before.

She’d only exchanged a few words with the others they'd brought from Fuschia, reluctant to meet the questions she knew they all had — and worse, their suspicions. She could take their blame, if they had any to give, but it was the other things she couldn’t bear to talk about; Dragon’s reasoning, and the upheaval that threatened with still-quiet ripples in the waters they'd only ever known as safe. How could she explain to them how they all figured into everything?

“Sabo-kun said you nearly blew his head off the other night.”

The cheerful utterance dragged her out of her thoughts, and drew her eyes from the sea to find the girl; the one she’d heard Sabo call Koala. She hadn’t even heard her approach, but she was watching her now, head tilted slightly and a small, curious smile curving along her mouth.

“You don’t strike me as the trigger-happy sort, though,” she added conversationally, as she moved to stand at Makino’s side by the railing.

Makino didn’t respond, and quietly turned her gaze back to the sea. The girl’s friendliness rankled — not because she thought it was fake, but because she knew just how easy it was to be lured into a false sense of complacency, if she let herself. And she couldn’t afford that. Not with these people, who’d exploit her death for the sake of their revolution, irrespective of who was hurt in the process.

“I guess you saw the morning paper,” Koala said then, after a lull.

Resolutely, Makino kept her eyes level with the horizon, afraid that if she let herself answer — that if she tried to form the words something else would escape, a scream or a sob, although with the quiet fury that had taken to festering in her chest, either response seemed wholly justified.

But she kept quiet, her son pressed close and her gaze on the endless stretch of blue beyond the bow, willing her mind to clear of the images that were pushing against her memory. She’d only caught a glimpse of the front page before she’d put it down, unable to read the whole thing, but the few words she’d caught were seared into her retina. _Blackbeard Pirates. Fuschia Port. Annihilated._

_No survivors._

She wondered if Shanks had heard yet, but she couldn’t follow that thought far down the path it threatened to take her, to a place where her son was gone, and where she couldn’t conjure the memory of her husband's smile if she tried. But her wedding ring sat, heavy where she worried it around her finger, and for all that distance had never been an issue between them, she’d never felt it more keenly than she did now, every mile seeming suddenly insurmountable.

_Where are you now, my love?_

“We’re headed for the Grand Line.”

Startled, Makino looked up, but Koala was looking straight ahead now, features entirely blank, save for that curiously unreadable smile.

“To the New World. I figured no one else would have told you,” she continued. “Sabo-kun probably will later, but he seemed a little preoccupied when I saw him. Like he had a lot on his mind.” She flicked her eyes to Makino’s once, deliberately, and Makino had the distinct impression she knew their conversation hadn’t ended on a pleasant note, although whether or not she knew just what she'd told him remained a mystery.

And she’d entertained the idea of how she might get away ever since Sabo had left her the night before — had turned it over in her mind, to explore it from every possible angle, desperate to find a solution as quickly as possible. But she hadn’t considered the option that presented itself now.

She thought of the vivre card tucked into her shirt, right above her heart. She couldn’t feel the minuscule movements, but she’d watched the slow shuffling of the paper enough times to imagine it, like the tug of an invisible string from behind her breastbone and across the sea, gently beckoning. Once they reached the Grand Line, they would have to dock at some point — for supplies, if for no other reason. Maybe an opportunity would present itself then. And however vast that terrible sea, she’d be closer to Shanks than she was now.

 _I’ll find you,_ she vowed silently, pressing her son closer, a fleeting kiss feathered to the red of his hair.

_One way or another._

“So it’s to be a long voyage then,” Makino said at length, choosing her words carefully. She’d heard enough of Shanks’ recounts to know it wasn’t a voyage made lightly, even for experienced sailors, but where she’d expected to find dread at the thought of entering that place, what she found now was something else entirely — a conviction that came to settle, kin to the one she’d already steeled her heart.

“Not that long,” Koala said, eyes twinkling. “We’re crossing the Calm Belt.”

Makino choked, and she felt Ace start in her arms, but when she looked at her Koala was smiling, as though there’d been nothing amiss about that statement.

“That’s impossible,” Makino told her, patting the small back gently to soothe the murmurs of discontent, although she didn’t feel like she had much comfort to offer. She’d heard the rumours — no wind, and still waters thriving with sea kings. No one crossed the Calm Belt.

Koala only shrugged. “The Big Boss has his ways,” she said simply. “But it’ll still be a while. There’ll be lots of time to fill. And it might be dangerous. The kind of dangerous where it will be useful to know a trick or two.”

Makino frowned. She spoke like she was building up to something, but she couldn’t for the life of her guess what it might be.

“So,” Koala said then, hands on her hips, “Since they’ll probably object to me giving you a pistol...” And by the way her eyes gleamed, Makino had the disconcerting feeling that she’d caught onto far more than she'd let on regarding her escape plans, a fact only solidified when she added, voice low and entirely conspiratorial,

“How about I teach you to throw a punch that’ll knock someone's teeth out?”

 

—

 

The newspaper dropped onto his desk, front page up, and a wide grin flashed, gold teeth catching the light of the kerosene lamp.

“Hey, would you look at that. They used my good picture for once!”

The corner of his companion’s mouth lifted slightly, keen gaze sliding over the photo. “As expected, as you are the villain in this story. The press thrives on the public’s terror.”

His laughter was enough to make the desk shake. “Damn right it does. Shit, they’re not even trying to sugar-coat it. _Annihilated?”_ His grin widened. “On second thought, I actually like the sound of that.” He didn’t look up from the newspaper, eagerly skimming the front page. “Any news on Dragon’s band of misfits?”

“Headed for the New World as we speak.”

“And the villagers?”

“It would seem they’ve brought them all.”

He looked up at that, brow raised. “Ain't that a little excessive when all he needs is one woman and her kid?"

Those bony shoulders gave a shrug. “Who can say why a man like Dragon does what he does?” A pause followed, and his smile took on an edge of amusement, “Although your predictions regarding their actions proved curiously accurate,” Lafitte added.

Teach grinned. “Not that difficult to predict if you know what you’re up against. That’s the thing about starved animals,” he said, flicking the corner of the page. The ink had stained his fingers black. “Doesn’t matter how feral—provide the right bait, and you’ll have them eating out of your hand. And you won't find anyone hungrier on this sea than those guys.”

“They were remarkably quick to respond to the threat. A surprise, given their current resources.”

Teach snorted. “You could leave that guy with nothing but the clothes on his back, and Dragon would still try to one-up the Government if given the chance. And they call _me_ a shameless opportunist.”

“You are a shameless opportunist, Admiral.”

He laughed, a loud, booming sound. “Yeah, well I’ve never claimed to be anything else.”

Lafitte flicked his eyes to the newspaper again, and the picture gracing the front — the black-and-white flames lapping against the page. “A curious amount of firepower though, for such a small port. A bit over the top, for simple theatrics?”

Teach waved him off. “Eh, they needed a show, I gave them a show. Gave them plenty of time, too. Enough to get the whole damn village out.”

“How gracious of you.”

“Right?” He laughed. “It's all going to plan either way, but knowing what angle they were going to spin, I had to deliver. If I’m going to be the bad guy in this, I’m not going to half-ass it. I’ve got expectations to live up to, you know.”

“And now that you have thoroughly lived up to them, what do you suppose is their plan of action?”

He considered the paper. “If I’ve got Dragon pegged right, he’ll play this _annihilation_ to his advantage.”

Lafitte hummed. “A queen’s sacrifice?”

“Is that what it’s called? I was never any good at chess.”

“And Red-Hair?”

Teach felt his grin widen. “Might actually get serious for once. Shit, gives me the shivers just thinking about it,” he laughed. “I can’t wait!”

“You think he’ll come?”

He shrugged, studying the newspaper. “There is such a thing as pushing a man too far,” he said with a snort. “Dragon’s got the right idea, but it’s overkill. You don’t off the queen—you use ‘er for leverage. A gambit, or whatever it’s called.”

Tapping his stained fingers against the paper, he felt his grin curve. “Thinks he can make a pawn of me, does he?” he mused, then snorted. “Bet he thinks he’s the one controlling the whole damn board. Well, joke’s on him—there’s only one king in this game.”

“Actually, in chess there are two—”

“Just let me have this!”

“Then might I instead inquire as to what our plan is?”

Teach leaned back in his chair, considering the ceiling of his cabin, the wide beams and the heavy carpets. It was a damn sight better than the old raft, although the wistfulness of those days still sat, a fond memory.

Then again, a little grandeur had never hurt anyone. And he did like his new fleet.

“Take the queen. Disrupt the board.” He shrugged. “Dragon wants change, but change doesn’t happen without a little upheaval. And upheaval’s just a fancy word for chaos.”

Lifting the paper, he considered the photograph, and his grin slid, a wickedly pleased thing along his mouth. It really was his best picture.

“And if what they want is chaos, then that’s damn well what they're getting.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this one hurt to write. Why did I think this was a good idea again?
> 
> OH, right. The eventual comfort part.
> 
> God help me.


	4. broken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! After a socially taxing holiday, this years' celebration was spent relaxing and writing, so have another update before real life's responsibilities welcome me back without mercy.

The sunlight crawling through the porthole told him another day had dawned, but it was with a detached acceptance that he pushed himself up and off the mattress, back protesting and a headache pounding against his skull as he swung his legs over the side of the bunk. But he didn’t rise to stand, feeling instead the mattress sinking under his weight, a new heaviness to his limbs that felt like it had come to stay.

The light hurt his eyes, and Shanks dropped his gaze, head spinning. The bottle of whiskey on the floor looked up at him, empty now, but it was easier resting his eyes on that than the empty space on his desk.

Someone had put the books away — Ben, most likely, and it was a small mercy, even if the remaining space seemed all the more prominent, and served as one of the many, constant reminders that even mindless drinking wouldn’t allow him to escape.

Rubbing his hand over his face, Shanks paused. It’d been over a week since he’d last shaved, or done anything resembling grooming, but the realisation didn’t prompt the self-deprecating comfort he’d hoped for, but something else entirely.

 _Look at this,_ she’d say, clucking her tongue fondly, dainty fingers threading through his hair, before pausing at his chin to tug at the beard.  _Don’t you bathe on that ship of yours?_

He’d grin, and quip —  _When it rains, usually._

Her sigh would be a laughing thing. _I meant a proper bath, you scoundrel._

 _Nothing that’s proper is ever fun,_ he’d retort, and she’d recognise the smile accompanying the remark — he could imagine it clearly, the gentle lift of her brow, and her own barely-suppressed smile as he added cheekily,  _I can think of a few ways we could make it improper, though..._

And she’d call him shameless, and shriek when he reached for her, but he’d feel her laughter in his entire being, and in her kisses, shy and sweet and entirely unmindful of the beard and anything else she might have protested.

Shanks pressed his knuckles to his brow, as though to forcibly shove away the thought, but there was no respite to be found from his own mind. And was this how his life would be like from now on? Forever imagining her voice, and what she’d say, and how she’d laugh, until it drove him mad?

Allowing his hand to drop, he considered his wedding ring, on his finger now where it belonged, but it offered him no peace, only a silent sort of ridicule. What claim did he have to wear it? Was he even a husband anymore?

A father?

He hadn’t expected his response to that thought to be so violent, and it was enough to make his fingers clench, the metal digging into his skin. And he looked for it now — rooted through his tired mind for the memory with an almost panicked desperation, because the thought that he should forget, today or any of the nameless days waiting ahead of him, was unbearable.

But he did find it, between her laughter and the ghost of her smile, that of another one — smaller, entirely toothless and easily prompted, sitting in a tiny, round-cheeked face.

 _Oh, he’s taking after you already,_ Makino had said, rubbing her hand across the baby’s stomach, making that little grin widen.  _I’d know that smile anywhere._

His own grin had been entirely shameless _. Because it’s the one that got you into this predicament?_

She’d tossed him a playful look over her shoulder.  _That, too._

_Think it’ll work again?_

She’d hummed, mock contemplative, but when he’d reached for her she’d come.  _Who knows? Maybe I’ve grown resilient to your charms._

_Careful, now. I could take that as a challenge. Set out to woo you anew._

She’d laughed at that, and said with such terrible earnestness it had driven his breath from his lungs —  _You say that like that's not what you do every day._

_Flattery now, my girl? How the tables have turned._

_Mm. You’ll turn them back around soon enough, I suspect._

He’d smiled, and when he’d pulled her toward him, had smothered her laughter with kisses, speaking the old promise against her grinning mouth.  _Count on it._

Ace had shrieked then, the entirely endearing demand for attention having dragged a laughing sigh from his chest.

 _Our lives really won’t be the same,_  Makino had mused, smile small and delighted.

 _No_ , he’d agreed, grin widening, entirely pleased at the thought, and had laughed when she’d added, her sigh too laughing to be disgruntled—

_And just wait until he learns to walk. There’ll be no ‘wooing’ in the middle of the day._

_Oh no? I hear another challenge._

He closed his eyes against the memory, unable to bear the full extent of it, but it was too late, and now all he could see was that small, gummy smile, and the little arms waving, at once reaching for everything and nothing. And he didn’t allow himself to think about the fact that he’d been older — that the baby he remembered, barely a few months old, had been a different boy when he'd—

There was a knock on his door, but he was too tired to tell them to leave him alone, and when it opened and admitted Ben, Shanks knew his protests wouldn’t have mattered even if he’d managed them.

He stopped in the doorway, and seemed to take a moment to consider him where he sat, before letting it slide shut behind him. And for a moment he didn’t say anything, but Shanks didn’t have any words of his own to offer — didn’t think he could have found them, if he’d looked.

“You look like hell,” Ben announced, leaning his weight against the door, but there was nothing humorous about the way he said it.

Shanks saw where his gaze had landed, but Ben didn’t mention the hair — the fact that it was more grey now than red, and there was a time he thought he might have been horrified at the rapid transformation, but vanity couldn’t have been further from his mind.

And if he hadn’t been so tired he might have welcomed a joke at his expense, but the thought of it felt too  _normal_  — a remnant of an old life, one that would never be the same.

“If you’re here to tell me I need to pull myself together—”

“Idiot,” Ben said, cutting him off. “You don’t know me as well as you claim to if that’s what you think.”

Shanks had nothing to say to that — couldn’t seem to string his words together into anything resembling a reply, no familiar quip or witticism in sight. It felt like it took all his strength just to keep breathing; like he had to actively remind his body to function, or it would shut down.

“You’re allowed to grieve,” Ben said then, expression softening a fraction. “You’re not the only one on this ship entitled to that. I know you haven’t stepped outside in a few days, but it’s not much better than in here. She wasn't just your wife — she was part of the crew, same as any one of us.”

He didn’t mention Ace, Shanks noted, and was glad — was  _relieved_  that Ben didn’t mention the crib, or the off-tune, bawdy lullabies, or the hundred little things a fearsome crew of pirates had done, and would do, for one little boy.

Ben sighed then, shoulders sinking. And he wasn’t smoking, Shanks noticed, but couldn’t have dredged up a remark to that if he’d wanted to. “But,” his best friend added, and it was a harder gaze that met his now. “There will be a time soon where you’ll need to accept it, and go on living.”

The words weren’t meant to be condemning, but they still felt it. But Shanks knew Ben was right.

And that was the cruellest truth. It would have been kinder if he hadn’t known what he needed to do — if he hadn’t known that he was still  _needed_ , if not as a husband and a father, then as a captain to his crew. A man of honour, on a sea where there were few who could lay claim to that title.

The thought dredged up another memory — of that terrible laughter, and _I hear congratulations are in order._ And he wasn’t too tired for anger, Shanks found, as it resurfaced now; a vicious, ugly thing that made his hand clench against the mattress.

He suspected Ben had picked up on where his thoughts had gone even before he said, “Not yet. You really are an idiot if you think you can take on Blackbeard in this state.”

“I’ve waited long enough, Ben,” Shanks said, voice little more than a rasp, but the truth in those words had been a constant companion over the past week. “If I hadn’t—”

“The only way she would have been entirely safe,” Ben cut him off, “is if you hadn’t gone back and married her. Are you saying you regret that, too?”

Whatever protest he'd prepared died on his tongue, because he couldn’t. Selfish as that fact was, he couldn’t regret the decision, or the brief time they’d had, flowers in her hair on their wedding day, and her hands tucked over the curve of her belly, ripe with that small, quickening life that had been the sum of their parts. He couldn't regret their son, even if he regretted the world he'd been born into, and the pirate's legacy that had condemned him from birth.

“Grieve,” Ben said then, the simple utterance dragging his thoughts back from where they'd wandered, to that soft sunset in the East Blue; the girl who'd once come running to greet him, and the son who never would. “Then when you’re ready, whatever you choose to do, you know I've got your back. We all do.”

The words fell between them, heavy with meaning, and he thought of a phone call, made well over a year ago now, with Garp—

 _If Blackbeard so much as thinks about it, I don’t care if it turns the whole goddamn world on its head—you take that bastard down. Y_ _ou hear me, Red-Hair?_

"Aye," he said, the word almost too soft to catch, although it wasn't determination that he found in it now, but a quiet resignation.

And despite Ben's words, he couldn't help the thought that if he'd acted sooner, he could have prevented it. He'd always known there was a possibility that someone would see an opportunity — if not Teach, then the World Government. There was little mercy in this world for those who gave their hearts to pirates, but—

"How is it fair?" he asked, "that it should be them?"

“It’s not,” Ben said. “But it’s not about what's fair now, it’s about what’s necessary. Life goes on, even when it feels like it won’t. You need to keep living, even if it feels like you can’t.” Then, quietly, “And I don’t need to tell you that it’s what she’d want,” he added. “I think you know that better than anyone.”

Shanks closed his eyes, and of course he could imagine her clearly — the tender furrow of her brow, and her kind eyes.

 _My love,_ she’d say, the soft cadence of her voice wrapped around the endearment, along with a sigh, entirely knowing.

_What are you doing to yourself?_

“Ben,” Shanks said. “How do you go on living?”

For a moment Ben said nothing, simply stared into the air, before he sighed, and Shanks watched him reach up to drag his thumb beneath his eyes.

And he’d never once in their entire friendship seen Ben lose his composure enough to cry, but he wasn’t bothering to hide it now as he spoke, shoulders sinking with the words that dragged loose with a hard honesty that offered understanding but no comfort—

“I don’t know.”

 

—

 

“No, not like that—more like this.”

She tucked her fingers together, and Makino frowned, before she attempted to mimic the gesture, although it felt awkward — like her whole stance felt awkward, as though her body hadn’t been made with this in mind.

For her part, Koala seemed entirely at ease, every movement executed with a near careless grace that Makino had come to envy fiercely. “Now put your weight behind it.”

Mouth pressed to a thin line, she moved forward, set on landing a hit this time, but found her fist deflected, before a hand curled around her arm, pulling with the intent of sending her crashing to the deck. And it was with some surprise that she managed to tear loose, although it was far from a graceful manoeuvre, making her stumble back across the planks.

Koala grinned, seeming pleased at the response, but Makino couldn’t conjure the same cheer. “You’re getting the hang of it now!”

“You don’t have to lie to make me feel better,” Makino huffed.

Koala adjusted her hat, although aside from it coming slightly askew she’d barely broken a sweat. “I’m not lying. I just didn’t specify what you were getting the hang of.”

Wiping a hand across her sweat-slicked brow, Makino sighed. “Which would be?”

Her eyes twinkled. “Not falling on your ass.”

Makino snorted. “That’s not much of a victory.”

“Depends on who you ask. The deck would agree with me, I think.”

Cutting her a wry look, Makino straightened, flexing her fingers restlessly. She didn’t feel like she was making any headway — in fact, the only thing keeping her going was the distraction it provided, allowing her mind to rest while her body drove itself to the point of exhaustion.

Still, it would have soothed her pride to manage  _something_ , if only to land a single blow.

“Hey,” Koala said then, voice having lost its teasing edge, and she must have followed the path of her thoughts across her face, because, “You are getting better,” she said. “This kind of stuff takes time to learn.  _Years_.”

“Then what’s the point?” Makino asked, throwing her hands up. “I’m not going to be here  _years_.” And she didn’t care what that statement revealed, because that was the truth of it, and the look she shot the girl dared her to disagree.

But Koala only smiled. “So maybe you’ll never use it for anything,” she said with a shrug. “Or maybe,” she added, giving Makino a look, “there’ll be a day where just knowing not to fall on your ass will save your life.”

Makino offered no verbal reply to that, eyes turned to the water beyond the railing as she took a moment to let her gaze sweep across the wide expanse of sea and sky. They’d passed an island earlier, but it was out of sight now, leaving only a pale grey horizon and heavy skies promising rain. In the week that she’d spent aboard their ship, there’d been many such islands, drifting in and out of sight, but they hadn’t stopped at a single one, and she'd long since given up keeping an eye out.

They’d crossed into the Grand Line less than a day ago, although Makino had spent most of the passage belowdecks, usually curious to a fault, but not enough to want to witness their crossing of the Calm Belt. She’d only ever seen one sea king in her life, and that from afar, and she’d felt no pressing need to change that.

Looking out across it now it was hard to spot a difference between this sea and the one they’d left — the one she’d known her whole life, if only from the safety of her little port. Of course, she’d felt the changes; the waters were more turbulent here, the waves not as gentle and the weather an ill-tempered thing, promising hail as easily as rain. But right now it was quiet, if forebodingly so.

There’d been precious little for her to do on board. She was a barkeep, not a sailor. She could mix a drink and cook a meal, but those had been skills for her quiet portside life, useless on the high seas. And so she’d thrown herself into the training offered — had taken any moment available to learn whatever Koala had been willing to impart. So far she’d been given a crash course in several things — picking locks, and disarming a distressing number of different weapons, although she’d been told she was far too hesitant for the latter.

And of course, there was the hand-to-hand combat, which was such a disastrously ungraceful venture Makino was surprised there wasn’t more laughter from across the deck.

“Want to take a break?” Koala asked, head tilted as she watched Makino fiddle with the wrappings on her hands. Pathetic things, she thought — too small to do any real damage, the bones too fragile for fighting, and the callouses she boasted were from sweeping floors, not swordsmanship.

 _You weren’t made for this life_ , she thought, considering the purple bruise blooming along her wrist, and the scuffed and dirty wrappings as she curled her fingers towards her palms. Then, defiance surging up within her, a ripple in calm waters — _b_ _ut it’s your life now whether you like it or not._

She remembered how Shanks would kiss her knuckles, and tell her there was strength in small things and fine bones. And when her next thought came to settle, it was with a quiet assurance that left behind no room for indecision—

_And if you don’t learn to swim, you’ll drown._

Mouth pressed into a hard line, Makino shook her head. “No,” she said, straightening. “Let’s go again.”

Koala only nodded, that odd, patient smile on her face, and didn’t question her sudden motivation.

Makino rubbed at her knuckles, and tried not to grimace. Her body wasn’t used to being put through this kind of activity, and after a week she was feeling the effects — not so much improvement as aching muscles and bruises; but she had to take advantage of the little spare time she had to herself.

Sabo had taken Ace off her hands earlier, an entirely too casual look shared with his partner as he’d left them to their lesson, bouncing the baby with an odd sort of elation, but when she’d asked he’d only shrugged his shoulders, and with a grin had declared—

_We share a legacy, you know._

She didn’t really know what he’d meant by that, but she’d acquiesced. Even if she didn’t agree with Dragon’s reasoning for keeping her with them, she trusted Sabo with her son’s life — that much she knew. And it was a small thing in the grand scheme of what was now her new life, but  _trust_ , even the smallest shred of it, wasn’t something she'd turn her back on, no matter what she might feel about his illustrious leader.

Speaking of Dragon — Makino felt his approach before she saw Koala straighten, and let her own hands drop from her stance, but didn’t turn around.

“Koala,” she heard him say, voice entirely level. “May we have a moment?”

She saluted cheerfully, but slipped Makino a look as she strode past, hands tucked at the small of her back and her steps light. Makino heard her hail someone down across the deck, the noise and bustle of the ship swallowing her up, leaving her on the far side with Dragon, along with an uncomfortable, tense silence.

She refused to turn around, and busied herself with rolling up the sleeves of her too-long shirt, feeling vividly the state the morning’s bout of exercise had left her in the way the sweat-soaked fabric clung to her back. And Dragon seemed to be of the habit of seeking her out when she was at her least presentable, although her current state was probably an improvement from her frilly dressing robe.

Not that she’d ever harboured any ideas of coming off as intimidating to a man who radiated authority like that, but it wouldn’t have hurt to at least feel like she had some kind of upper hand, she thought, fingers itching to comb through her hair.

He’d come to take a stand beside her, and when she stole a glance it was to find his gaze resting on the horizon. “There’s no view quite like it,” he declared, before a look crossed his face that she would have called wistful, if she didn’t know better. “Although I’ve always been partial to the Fuschia sunset.”

At the all-too casual mention of her home, she felt the now familiar curl of anger that had come to fester, somewhere at the bottom of her ribcage. And she knew her feelings must show on her face, because when he looked at her next he said,

“I don’t begrudge you your hostility, Makino-san. I hope you know that.”

“How very generous of you,” she said before she could stop herself, and didn't know if she was more surprised by the remark itself, or the anger that had slipped into her voice. She’d never been good with confrontations — was always the first to yield in an argument, granted she didn’t burst into tears first. Her old Mistress had given her grief for it more than once.

_You’ll never learn to stand up for yourself if you can’t hold back those tears, girl. Learn to bottle up some of those damn feelings. The world won’t treat you kinder for it, but at least it won’t break you._

She’d tried, when she’d been younger — had tried to temper her reactions, and her emotions, but there’d been no use. She’d still burst into tears during arguments, and had never been able to school her face into impassivity, but—

 _You have a strong-feeling heart_ ,  _my girl_ , Shanks had said once, quietly marvelling.  _I don’t see anything wrong with letting it show._

“I guess I should be grateful,” she continued, the thought of him spurring her on — somewhere across the same sea she sailed now, but he couldn’t have felt further away. Not while she was still trapped with the Revolutionaries.

She looked at Dragon now as she added, “For your hospitality.”

His expression yielded nothing. “You were never meant to be a prisoner,” he told her; Sabo’s words, although they weren’t spoken with any of the same feeling. This was just a calm statement of facts, from a man who delivered hard truths without blinking.

“The ship is yours to explore as you see fit,” Dragon continued. He didn’t glance at her shirt, or her wrapped knuckles, but Makino had the distinct impression he was referring to them when he added, “And you haven’t been shackled. You’re free to pursue whatever avocations available to you.”

She felt her fingers curl together, but sensed in the action how pathetic her attempts truly were. What power could she claim on a sea like this? She could practice until her knuckles bled, but it wouldn’t do her any good. There was no getting off this ship. Not before they let her, anyway.

She didn’t want to think about when that might be, or what it would mean for Shanks. If he did go after Blackbeard like Dragon hoped, there was the chance he’d emerge victorious, and that they would let her go — that she’d find him no worse for wear, and that everything would be alright.

Except she remembered Shanks’ scars, and the old story that sat in them. And she’d heard about Blackbeard’s powers, and his recent rise to fame. And for all the faith she had in her husband, grief-ridden and with nothing left to lose…

“Does he still think I’m dead?”

She met Dragon’s gaze, and it took all her strength not to drop her own, but the grip she kept on her anger helped. And she didn’t care that her voice shook when she asked, “That his son is dead? Because you can treat me as kindly as you please, but as long as that’s the case you’ll get no gratitude from me.”

His silence was answer enough, and she felt suddenly short of breath. And the knowledge pressed against her heart — that it had been a week; that, wherever he was on this vast sea, Shanks had lived a week thinking they were gone. And whatever Dragon had hoped he’d do, there’d been nothing, and no word from the Red-Hair Pirates.

Makino thought she might have taken some perverse pleasure in it, that Shanks wasn’t being led by the nose like Dragon wanted, but the complete radio silence held another kind of promise, and one she didn’t want to imagine, remembering a heart as strong-feeling as her own, and what grief might make of it.

“Your anger is understandable,” Dragon said then. “It’s a mother’s instinct, to protect her kin. But your son is safe. Take heart in that, if nothing else.”

She scoffed, but it was too soft a sound to be properly damning. “What would you know about being a parent?”

It was hard to tell if the slight raise of his brows was due to the fact that she’d caught him off guard with the remark, or if it had been too quiet for him to catch, but, “What would you know about being a parent?” she repeated, voice a harder thing now.

Dragon didn’t answer, and Makino watched him. And not for the first time did she find herself searching for similarities — anything that could bridge the gap in her mind, between the man standing before her and the little boy she’d watched grow up, with his earnest smiles and too-loud feelings.

“Luffy asked me once, what it was like having a mother,” she said then, holding his gaze, but she didn’t look for a reaction — somehow, she doubted there’d be one. “I told him I didn’t know, because I’d never had one myself. I never knew my parents. I only had my legal guardian.”

She remembered having had to explain the concept.

_So…you and grumpy old baba are like you and me?_

_Ah—well, not exactly. I don’t have legal guardianship over you, Luffy. I just watch you sometimes._

That expressive face had contorted with confusion.  _Oh. So it’s illegal?_

She’d laughed at that, Makino remembered.  _No, it’s just not…official, I guess._

_How come?_

_Well, there’d have to be paperwork involved. And anyway, your grandpa is your legal guardian._

He’d pouted.  _Can’t it be you instead? You’re so much nicer!_

Her throat closed up now, thinking about it — and what she’d told him so fondly.

_I’ll be lucky if I ever have a son like you, Luffy._

“I didn’t realise it then,” she said now, dropping her eyes to the water. “But she was my mother, in all the ways that mattered. And I was young, but—but in the ways that mattered, at least for a little while, I was  _his._ ”

She thought of Dadan then, and wondered where she was. Another mother’s heart who’d grieve, not knowing the truth; who’d never asked for the burden that had been placed on her. Another life, wholly insignificant for people who fought for the many, not the few.

“Your son had people who cared for him,” she said quietly, lifting her gaze back to Dragon’s. And she thought of Shanks, who’d once grinned up at her from his sickbed, fever-wrought and one arm short, and told her he’d make the same choice again in a heartbeat. And for once she was glad her face showed her every feeling, as they rose within her now—

“People who would have given the world for him, not the other way around.”

She didn’t drop her eyes, and she thought she might have detected a tightening of his features, but it was so brief she couldn’t be sure she’d imagined it. And she thought then, of Luffy’s expressive face, which showed his every thought — like hers, but where she'd often tried in vain to school her features, he'd been too honest with his feelings to even bother concealing them.

“And I’m glad,” Makino said then, chin lifted, “that your son grew up to be  _nothing_  like you.”

Before he could offer a response, she’d pushed past him, heart in her throat now, although it wasn’t fear that drove her away, but a different kind of urgency. And she didn’t stop before she’d reached her cabin, slamming the door shut behind her just as her chest heaved for breath, shaking hands fisted in the fabric of her trousers.

The cabin was empty. Sabo must be elsewhere on the ship with Ace, and in the sudden quiet with no one else around, and her last words to Dragon echoing loudly in her head, Makino allowed herself to break.

She felt the tears come, and for the first time since she’d been pulled out of bed and dragged away from her home, she allowed the tight knot that had formed in her chest to unfurl, until her whole body shook with it. And it was an effort keeping her sobs quiet so as to not draw attention to herself, and her chest  _hurt_ , so much so that she thought she might choke from it. The door welcomed her weight as she sank down, curling in on herself, and she’d never felt smaller or more powerless, or the sea vaster than it did now.

She thought of her quiet home, and the things she'd loved so fiercely — the window of her bedroom thrown open, letting in the sea breeze, and Shanks sprawled across the length of their bed, their son asleep on his chest and his reading glasses slipping down his nose, a book forgotten beside him. Her bar in the morning, bustling with conversation, and Ace cooing against her breast as she moved between tables, her whole crew present. The little hill overlooking the sea and just her and Shanks, stealing a moment to themselves, the village sleeping below while they laughed, her back in the grass as he kissed her, tasting of whiskey. The things that had been _hers_ , taken from her now.

Her sobs were muffled by her knees, but she felt each one, her fingers digging into her arms, and it wasn’t anger now but exhaustion that settled across her back like a devil’s weight, until she felt like she could sink through the planks. But she clung to the memories, refusing to shy away from them even as they hurt recalling, knowing she would have to wipe her tears and greet a new day soon enough, and that if she forgot what it was she fought for, it was over.

But for now, if only for a little while, Makino would allow herself the luxury to grieve.

 

—

 

The charred ruins greeted him with none of the cheer he imagined the village might have offered once, and in picking his way up along the path from the wharf, stepping around the soot-stained rubble that had once been a row of houses, it was a weary weight that came to settle on his shoulders.

He considered the sight, mouth slanted with a contemplative frown as he came to a stop amidst the rubble. The air still carried a faint trace of gunpowder, and if not for the skeletal remnants of what had been a small seaside port, he might have been fooled into thinking there’d been nothing but rocks and fields tucked against this corner of the island.

He drew a breath, eyes closed against the sun sitting low on the horizon. And he waited, until the sunlight had thrown his shadow large across the dirt, and he heard the sound of footsteps approaching.

The presence asserted itself with intent, but he’d noticed it before he’d even stepped onto the ruined wharf. And so it wasn’t with surprise that he turned to take in the man stepping beyond the remains of a threshold, shadow larger than his own, and movements carrying an ease that made Rayleigh feel suddenly every single one of his years.

“Not a face I expected to see here,” he greeted.

Those hard features didn’t twitch as Dracule Mihawk lifted his gaze to meet his. “Likewise.”

The pause that followed was laden, but there was no threat to be found in his posture, and no trace of ill intent. The massive blade on his back sat, untouched, and his fingers hadn’t so much as inched towards the hilt.

“It’s a long way for the Government to send one of their Warlords,” Rayleigh observed, after a lull. “Given the recent unrest in the New World, one would think a set of skills as famous as yours would be better spent elsewhere.”

That severe mouth quirked. “You have already guessed that I am not here on anyone’s behalf but my own.”

Rayleigh returned the smile. “Not ostensibly.” He paused. “He doesn’t know you have suspicions, then? Shanks.”

The man the world called Hawk-Eyes didn’t look at him, and his expression revealed none of his thoughts, but, “Hope should not be offered lightly, however desperate the soul,” he said at length.

Rayleigh inclined his head in agreement. “A wise precaution.” He’d thought much the same, after all.

“But you sense it as well,” Mihawk said, sharp eyes sweeping the length of what had once been a street, before coming back to meet Rayleigh’s.

He didn’t answer, knowing it would be redundant. He knew keenly the tang of death that often clung to places like this — remnants of a hundred unique lives, clinging desperately to the remains of their last moments. He’d walked enough battlefields and seen enough wanton destruction in his life to recognise it, but there was none of it to be found here. The ruined village was like an empty shell, devoid of any lingering traces of human life.

He had an inkling as to what might be the reason, but he wasn’t given the chance to voice his suspicions, as they were interrupted.

He’d caught her approach from a good ways off, and knew his companion had done the same, but it wasn’t until the sound of a gun cocking tore through the air that they looked towards the newcomer.

She stepped out from behind the charred skeleton of a house, her mass of copper hair catching the light of the setting sun, and it was a hard gaze that met Rayleigh’s, sitting in features drawn tight with anguish and an old, tired fury.

“One of you better start explaining,” she declared, voice a rough, unapologetic growl as she aimed the rifle casually, but with enough intent that told him she knew how to use it. And Rayleigh was hard pressed to determine if it was done in ignorance of who they were, or if she knew quite well and couldn’t have cared less.

“You can start with what the hell you’re doing here.”

 

—

 

She was woken by someone shaking her shoulder, and for a single second she was too disoriented to piece together where she was; she didn’t recognise the hard mattress, or the quiet shadows, far too dark for her bedroom. And there was no one beside her; no arm thrown across her hip, caging her body to a larger frame, and none of Shanks' snores to greet her.

Then, her mind clearing a bit of the haze of sleep, she recognised the too-tight space of the cabin, and blinking into the dark, it was to find Sabo crouched by the bunk, a sleepy Ace on his arm.

Confusion and lingering exhaustion made it difficult to string her words together, but, “What’s going on?” Makino murmured, sitting up on the bunk, fully alert now. But the ship was quiet — there was no sound of running feet above her head, or voices. And it had to be the middle of the night; if there was one thing she’d learned in the week she’d stayed with them, it was that it was never this quiet during the day.

Sabo grinned then, and she found in the mischief stretching across his scarred face the memory of two other smiles, equally mischievous, but she wasn’t given the chance to question what was happening before he was saying, eager voice little more than a whisper—

“Ready to make a run for it, Ma-chan?”

 


	5. rogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watch me evil-villain steeple my fingers at the comments some of you have left on this. You're all lovely. I love you.

It took a moment for the words to register, and when they did all she could do was stare.

Seeming to take her silence as agreement, Sabo gave her shoulder a nudge. “Come on,” he said, keeping his voice down. “Koala’s keeping watch, but there’s a limited window if we want to do this.”

Ace was coming fully awake now, sleepy eyes blinking into the dark, and the grimace pulling at his small features promised a wail but Sabo’s murmurs were quick to soothe the protests, and Makino could only watch, thoughts still racing to catch up with the rest of her.

Lifting his head to look at her, Sabo nodded towards the cabin door. “Let’s go.”

And there was something all too familiar about this scene, but where she’d allowed herself to be led before, now something revolted within her — some part of her that had grown infinitely tired of being pushed around at the whims of others, as though she had no agency of her own. And that might be true insofar as strength went on this sea, but faced with it once again Makino found she’d had quite enough of people making decisions for her.

“Why?” she asked, careful to keep her voice down, but the word was stressed; she had no intention of letting him think she was asking out of indecision. Oh no. They would see her _angry_ now.

He looked at her, then at the door, his impatience bright in the restless movements, but it was a different kind than what she remembered from the night he’d shown up in her bedroom in Fuschia. That urgency had carried the promise of what might have happened if they’d tarried. This wasn’t quite as serious, but she felt it regardless.

“I’m getting you out of here,” he told her then. “You’ve been looking for an opportunity to get away, right? Well here’s your chance, but we have to go _now_.”

She’d reached out before she’d had time to think about it, fingers clamping around his elbow, and her voice was a harsh whisper when she repeated, “ _Why_?” Then, in a gentler tone, but one that still let slip some of her frustration, “You have time to tell me that much.”

Sabo looked like he wanted to protest, and, “You’re going against your leader,” Makino told him. “You’ll have to excuse me if I’m finding that a bit hard to believe.” But even as she spoke the words she thought she might have an idea as to why he was doing it — that maybe his change of heart had something to do with what she’d told him, well over a week ago now.

She watched his inner conflict shift across his features, and for a moment she wondered if he might refuse, before his expression softened as he seemed to come to a decision.

“I know,” Sabo said then, the words gentle, but not just because he was keeping his voice down. “What it’s like,” he continued, “realising too late that someone you loved was alive all along when you thought they were dead. I know it’s not exactly the same, but…I _know.”_

He must have seen the confusion on her face, because, “Retrograde amnesia,” he told her then, to her questioning look, and Makino’s brows lifted. “That’s why I didn’t come back, or let them know I was alive. I didn’t—I _couldn’t_ remember there was anyone to come back to.” His eyes shifted away from hers, and for a moment he seemed to retreat within himself.

“Ace,” he continued, before he faltered, seeming unable to speak the words, and it was with a sinking heart that Makino understood what he was saying.

“I didn’t realise, until after,” he said at last.

Her mouth worked. “Sabo…”

“I believe in the revolution,” he said, and she wondered for a moment if he was speaking to himself more than her. “And in Dragon-san, but—” He pressed his mouth together, the grimace tugging at the scarring on his face.

“He’s important to Luffy,” he said then, lifting his eyes back to hers. “Shanks. That was one of the first things I learned. He wouldn’t stop talking about it.” His smile quirked, an almost startled thing, before it fell. “And he made sure Ace had a grave, after— _after_. I would’ve had nowhere to go without it, and it’s not something just anyone would do. Not on this sea.” He shook his head then, his features hardening.

“And I don’t think I could live with myself if something happened, and a man like that died thinking his family was lost.”

The words made something physically recoil within her, an almost visceral reaction, even though she’d considered the alternative more than enough times herself.

“Ace did,” Sabo said then, quietly. “I didn’t get to tell him, and it’s—” He sighed, the sound a harsh, grieving thing. “Sometimes it’s all I can think about, that he had to live with that knowledge all those years, that I was dead—that they both did. And when I realised, I was too late to do anything about it.”

He met her look. “I don’t want you to have to feel that regret,” he told her. “And I don’t want the man who did so much for Luffy to live not knowing. I didn’t know, and because of that I couldn’t even try to change it, but _you_ still can. It’s not too late.”

“So I hope you can forgive me,” he said then. “And if not, I hope this can help make things right.” A smile followed, and suddenly she saw a boy, corkscrew curls and toothy grin, asking politely if he could help carry her laundry basket, after his brothers' over-enthusiastic scuffle had accidentally torn down her clothes line.

“It won’t change the world,” he added, gaze shifting to where Ace sat, quiet on his hip. And his smile was a strange thing now, one Makino couldn’t quite place. “But change sometimes starts out small, or so I’ve heard.”

It felt like something heavy was sitting on her chest, but her anger had trickled out, leaving her feeling raw and exposed.

But not helpless, and she latched onto that feeling now with all the strength she had left.

“Okay,” she said, voice suddenly thick, and drawing a breath she tried for a smile, even as she felt it falter, “I’m guessing you have a plan to get us off this ship?”

Sabo grinned, and Makino decided she wouldn’t ask — that for now, all she would do was _trust_. Because she was in over her head, had been ever since he’d pulled her out of her bedroom that night, turning her world on its head and giving her no time to adjust. And if she wanted to achieve any of the things she’d vowed she would, she couldn’t do it alone.

They made for the deck, no more words exchanged between them, Sabo’s steps silent but certain and Makino at his heels, feeling none of the same ease. Ace still sat on his hip, gripping the collar of his coat, his own trust a seemingly effortless thing, even as it spoke volumes — of a week spent with an eager babysitter, who’d told him stories he was too young to understand, of a namesake he’d never meet but who still existed in those who remembered.

“Here,” Sabo said then, when they’d cleared the deck, handing the baby over, and Makino wrapped her arms around him, taking comfort in his warm little shape. He mumbled a noise against her throat, and she ran her fingers through the soft down of his hair. “I’ll get the boat ready, you just hang tight.”

She was tempted to tell him that his idea of _hanging tight_ made her want to throw up, but settled on trying to force her nervousness into something manageable, rubbing small, soothing circles on Ace’s back, although she had the feeling she was doing it more for her own comfort than for his.

Then Koala was there, having slipped between them so quietly Makino startled, almost letting slip an alarmed shout, but she managed to swallow it in time.

“You sure were taking your sweet time,” she told Sabo, her smile holding that easy cheer Makino couldn’t have made herself feel if she’d tried. “I told you I would cover for you, but that means you need to actually _try_ and get off the ship.”

He grinned, nodding his head to Ace in Makino’s arms. “I had to wake him first,” he said, then to Makino, “And then I had to wake her, and she wasn’t as easily persuaded.”

Koala’s smile was entirely too knowing. “Well, most people don’t appreciate being dragged out of bed in the middle of the night, Sabo-kun. I’m surprised she didn’t clock you this time. I did teach her how.”

Sabo’s smile was sheepish, but Makino was too on edge to let it soften the twitchy impatience she felt, standing on deck in plain sight, as though begging to be discovered. She hadn’t had time to change, and she stood now, barefoot and shivering in the nightdress she’d worn when she’d left Fuschia. She hadn’t even remembered her dressing robe this time.

Something was dropped over her shoulders then, and Sabo flashed her a smile, before turning back to where he’d been busy working on lowering the boat into the water. And for a moment she was too startled by the gesture to respond, before asking, “But what about you?”

His grin hinted at a private joke, and when he quipped, “I have good circulation,” Makino thought better than to ask, gratefully pulling the coat closer and tucking it around Ace as far as it’d go.

“The watch?” Sabo asked then, without pausing in what he was doing.

“Out cold,” Koala chirped.

He looked at her, expression suddenly dubious. “What did you do?”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry, I just spiked their drinks. They’ll wake with a headache, and won't remember a thing.”

“And you’ll take over once we’re gone?”

“Of course. Someone has to make sure we’re not attacked.” Makino caught her smile then, and the look slipped her way. “Or you know, that no one stages a getaway.”

She crossed her arms over her chest then, her look changing into something more serious — and knowing. “Did you remember to bring your baby Den Den Mushi?” she asked Sabo.

He patted his pockets, before he winced, and with a roll of her eyes she’d proffered it, tucking it into his coat. “ _Mou_ , how are you planning on getting anywhere without me?” She looked to Makino. “Make sure he stays out of trouble, yeah? The signal on that snail isn’t really good enough for inter-island calls so I might not be able to keep in touch. It’s up to you to manage things.”

“I’ve gone solo before, you know,” Sabo pointed out, sounding put-off. “Lots of times.”

Koala pretended not to hear him. “And make sure that you tell him when you need to take a break,” she told Makino. “He has no sense of self-restraint, and he tends to forget that normal people need rest.”

“Hey—”

“Oh, and if he takes you somewhere to eat,” she said, mouth pinching together, “Make sure you’re ready to make a run for it, because he won’t be paying. And if you’re _not prepared_ ,” she slid Sabo a withering look at that, “and they catch you and make you do kitchen duty for a whole day, he’ll tell you he ‘thought you were right behind him’. In which case, smack him for me, please?”

“That was _one_ time,” Sabo muttered, helping Makino into the boat, dangling over the edge of the railing. “And I did think you were right behind me—I told you to run, didn’t I? I thought I was pretty clear.”

It was difficult, reconciling their easy banter with the nervous breakdown she felt she was about to have, but she tried, keeping their low voices at the edge of her hearing as she planted her feet in the boat. And feeling it tilt beneath her as it was lowered into the water, Makino kept her arms wrapped tight around Ace, silently praying that he wouldn’t make any noise — Sabo and Koala seemed entirely at ease talking, but at least they were keeping their voices down. Her son had the occasional habit of shrieking to assert his presence.

“Oh, and Makino-nee?”

When Makino looked up it was to find a decidedly cheeky smile where Koala leaned her arms on the railing. She tapped her closed fist against the palm of her hand. “Remember to put your weight behind it.”

There was a word at the tip of her tongue — a gratitude that felt suddenly like too much, like it might escape her in a sob just as easily as a _thank you_. Because they’d owed her nothing, least of all this girl with her odd, hard-to-remove smiles, and the understanding that seemed beyond her years. And yet she’d offered, anyway — her time and her patience, even now.

But she had a feeling, drifting away from the ship and finding Koala waving them off, that she knew what she’d wanted to say.

Then they were pulling away into the dark, the sea their fourth accomplice, pushing them gently towards the thin stretch of land Makino could just barely make out in the far distance. An island, beckoning now from the darkness, and she didn’t have the mind to worry about what lurked in the one beneath the little boat, a vast difference from the safety offered by the large and imposing vessel at their backs.

And she didn’t dare look back at the ship, suddenly afraid of what she might find if she did, now that she could taste freedom on the tip of her tongue.

 

—

 

“Dragon-san.”

“Hmm?”

“Sabo seems to have commandeered one of the boats. What would you like to do?”

He looked out across the water, having settled under the cover of night, but the skies were overcast, and the stars barely visible. He could feel a storm brewing, but they’d make it to shore before it hit. They had time, and Sabo was a proficient sailor.

He also had ample time to stop them, Dragon knew, watching the horizon beyond the stern, where the beginnings of the storm roiled. And it was a wry smile he felt tugging at his mouth, presented as he so often was with a choice of this type — the ones that he knew were pivotal, but had no idea of knowing in just what way. He’d thought much the same that night, Fuschia burning, and an opportunity having fallen into his lap in the form of a young woman with her small son.

He thought back to her words from the day before, and the furrow to her brow, something staggeringly familiar in the fierceness of that once-gentle expression that had made him pause. It was one he often found in the pictures of Luffy in the paper; that same vivid defiance that could bring the world to its knees.

 _You’re right, Makino-san,_ he thought, searching out an old memory from where he’d kept it tucked away over twenty years, the rebellious jut of that elegant chin, and the grin splitting her face, too wide and toothy for feminine allure, but then she’d have laughed herself hoarse at the notion that she ought to aspire to it. And his wife had been many things, but meek had never been one of them.

_I’m not the one he takes after._

The fondness that followed was familiar. As was the grief it still brought him, remembering her.

“I don’t see any boat,” he said, turning on his heel, and making for his quarters without a backward glance. And he wasn’t questioned, or likely to be, but the thought didn’t bring him any kind of satisfaction; it was just a fact. The loyalty of his people had never been a point of pride — something to brag about, as though people’s hearts could be counted in coins, and those he called his own were only worth what they gave of themselves. He wanted people who would fight and whose hearts recognised injustice, but he wanted the _people_ , not a mindless army of puppet-followers.

There was a part of him that suspected he should have seen this coming, knowing well the kind of loyalty his second-in-command possessed, but the thought of it yielded no anger, just the familiar, wry feeling that insofar as people’s hearts were concerned, like the sea there was no predicting the shifting currents.

Especially on this particular sea, where a rogue whirlpool could see fit to change one’s entire course.

_It appears it’s your move now, Makino-san._

 

—

 

Despite the size of the boat, Sabo made quick work of their passage. They hadn’t anchored the ship far from the island, but Makino felt the push of the waves against the wood, and pretended it didn’t feel urgent — as though they were being ushered away, the sea holding the promise of what might await them if they got caught.

There’d be no more escape attempts, she thought, feeling the sobering weight of that realisation. They might not even allow her out of her cabin, and as for Sabo...

“Don’t worry,” he said, no doubt having caught her gaze fleeting back towards Dragon’s ship. “If Dragon-san really didn’t want us to leave, we wouldn’t have made it off the ship,” he told her, and there was a protest at the tip of her tongue, to ask if he knew his leader at all, when he added, with a strange smile, “Whatever you said to him, it made an impression.”

She paused. In her arms, Ace wiggled, before settling, head tucked against her shoulder. “What makes you think I said anything?” Makino asked, rubbing her thumb over his cheek.

Sabo inclined his head to look at her, grin flashing with something far too knowing. “You mean other than the fact that everyone was talking about how you eviscerated him on deck yesterday?”

Makino felt her cheeks flush. “It might not have been that,” she murmured.

His grin didn’t seem to suggest that he was angry; rather, it looked almost self-deprecating. “Take it from someone who’s been on the receiving end of one of your verbal blows—it packs one hell of a punch. And I should know, Koala hits me all the time.”

The look he gave her next was almost assessing. “You can be pretty terrifying, you know. In a sweet and gentle sort of way. Which only makes you scarier, if you ask me.”

“I doubt a few choice words qualifies as _terrifying_ on this sea,” Makino pointed out, although Shanks had told her much the same, and Garp, but she’d never really put much stock into the words, thinking them too fanciful to hold any shred of actual truth.

“Then you’ve clearly never seen Dragon-san when he’s giving a speech,” Sabo told her. “It’s not terrifying because it inspires fear, it’s because it’s _convincing_. And you, Ma-chan,” he added with a wink, “are far more convincing than you give yourself credit. I think it’s a good thing you’re not a pirate—you’d give a lot of charismatic people on this sea a run for their money.” He grinned. “You’d make a good revolutionary too, if you wanted.”

Once again the words hit a little too close to home, and she tried to shove down the swell of hope that crested within her now, with the suddenly very real prospect of getting to talk to Shanks.

She tried for a smile, but it felt more like a grimace. “I don’t think I would get very far as either—my real punch isn’t exactly strong as a pistol. Koala-san can attest to that.”

Sabo looked at her, expression suddenly unreadable. Then, “There are different types of strength,” he said, features softening a bit as he looked at Ace, dozing in her arms. “In my experience, the physical kind only goes so far.”

Makino didn’t ask him to elaborate, sensing it was a personal topic. Instead she stole another glance back towards the water, and the ship she knew sat somewhere in the inky darkness, now out of sight. “Are you sure you’re not going to get into trouble for this?”

Sabo’s smile was rueful. “If we still had a base, I might have had to scrub the communal toilets for a month.” He shrugged. “Maybe he’ll make me scrape the barnacles off the ship.”

Makino looked at him, brows furrowed. “That sounds like a mild punishment, for disrupting his plans like this.”

He shook his head. “This wasn’t in the making for long,” he told her. “I think it was more an opportunity seized when it presented itself. I know that doesn’t make him sound like a very good guy, but it wasn’t a decision made out of cruelty.” He looked at her, his smile careful. “But then I think you know that.”

Makino said nothing, and was tempted to tell him she didn’t, but the lie wouldn’t come. She’d known it had given him no joy, but then that had only made it worse — the knowledge that there existed people in this world who made decisions like that, almost coldly, and entirely without regard for their own personal feelings.

“There are a lot of plans that don’t pan out, especially in our line of business,” Sabo said then. “But it’s going to take more than a few individual rebellions to unravel the Revolutionary Army. This isn’t the navy. We don’t wear uniforms and stand at attention, following orders without question. Dragon-san makes us question everything. Even him.”

It didn’t surprise her to hear it, but then why would it? From what she’d learned of him in the week she’d stayed aboard his ship, it was that he was fiercely respected — and not the kind that came from fear, which was so often the case with people in positions of power. That he’d urge his subordinates to think for themselves wasn’t hard to believe, but it might have been easier to bear if it had been.

Sabo looked at her then. “And I think he knows,” he said, and his next remark only solidified what Makino had already been thinking. “Better than anyone, I think Dragon-san knows what kind of choice he made, when he gave up being a father for the revolution.”

Then, dropping his gaze to Ace, “And I don’t think he’d take that away from Red-Hair lightly.”

Makino said nothing to that, but tightened her grip on her son, feeling him squirm a bit in her arms, but needing to feel him, if just for a moment; needing to hear his heartbeat and his small noises, and drawing strength from the knowledge that even after all they’d been through, her son was still unscathed.

 _Small mercies_ , she thought, the words like an invocation as she rocked him gently, and feeling the press of his face against her collar, having shoved a portion of her hair in his mouth, but she didn’t have the mind to scold him. She felt his small hand, fingers flexing in the fabric of Sabo's coat, and every little movement helped settle her heart.

Sabo said nothing else, and for the remaining duration of their passage there were no more words between them. And she hadn’t the faintest idea if he even knew where they were going or if he was just following his gut, but she was too tired to question it. And anyway, the alternative was to go back to the ship, and frankly, at this point Makino would rather take her chances with the island.

They disembarked in silence, but when he held his arm out she took it, and when her feet touched solid ground it was all she could do not to let her knees buckle, the relief almost too much. And in that moment it didn’t matter that she could barely see through the dark, or that she had no idea what awaited them on land; all that mattered was that the ground didn’t pitch under her feet, and she could have sunk to her knees amidst the sand and the seaweed if she hadn’t had her son in her arms. The water was freezing against her bare legs, but she relished in it, even as it left her shivering.

“It looks like there’s a storm coming. We should find somewhere to rest up,” Sabo said then, eyes trained on the sky, charcoal-grey where it yawned overhead, obscuring the stars. “And a Den Den Mushi,” he added, smile widening when he saw how that caught her attention. “I have a feeling there’s a call you need to make.”

For a moment all Makino could do was look at him, but then there were tears pressing against her eyes, gratitude and relief swelling within her until it felt like her chest might burst from it, and she didn’t bother holding them back now as she let them fall. Ace patted her cheek, before burying his fingers in her hair again, tugging, and when she laughed it sounded more like a sob, but it wasn't sorrow she felt now, Makino found.

And all she could do was nod, hoping it conveyed her feelings, but by the smile she got in return she didn’t need to have worried.

There was a village just beyond the rise ahead of them, dotting the sloping path towards the water on the other side. It was a small island, even smaller than the only one she’d ever known, and it took a moment to wrap her mind around it, that not everything on the Grand Line was as massive and terrifying as her imagination sometimes wanted her to think. Sea kings and temperamental weather notwithstanding, there were regular people here, living ordinary lives, on islands not all that different from hers.

And it was strange, she thought, walking down the muddied street curving between the houses, the muted dark heralding the first beginnings of dawn, making the shadows gentler things. She’d imagined how this scenario would go down, if she by some stroke of luck should have managed to get away, and it had never gone like this. She’d thought she would have had to run, or at the very least, that she would have had to hide, but Sabo was entirely calm, and certain in his conviction that Dragon wouldn’t come after them.

And for some reason, Makino couldn’t help but feel some of the same surety. She didn’t know how she could, when she’d spent so many days considering Dragon’s ruthless reasoning, unable to conceive how someone could make such a choice for someone else. And she’d been certain there’d be no leaving that ship until he’d gotten the war he wanted, especially considering the fact that Shanks had yet to do what he’d hoped.

She should feel suspicious, she thought. Or better yet, she shouldn’t be so quick to believe Sabo’s words.

Except that Sabo had complete faith in his leader, despite whatever his current act of rebellion suggested. And watching him now, entirely at ease with his decision, the pensive press of his brow that she’d observed over the last week having finally relented, Makino allowed her shoulders to relax, if only a little.

She’d hoped, of course — that by appealing to the big brother in him, the one who’d do anything for Luffy, she could inspire him to see her side of the matter. But she’d imagined he’d _talk_ to Dragon about it, not stage an escape in the middle of the night.

Then again, maybe there was something to be said for keeping up appearances — that, faced with an inquiry it was easier for Dragon to turn it down, but if he had to deal with their actual getaway he might consider it too much trouble chasing after them. And this way at least, she’d have someone with her, and she was desperately glad of it now as Sabo nodded towards a small inn sitting at the corner of the quiet street. A rumble of thunder rolled across the sky in the distance, the dark clouds holding an ominous promise, and it was with the first droplets of rain wetting her cheeks that they stepped beneath the awning to the door.

And even if there was part of her that wanted to protest — to say that they should keep moving, that there wasn’t yet enough distance between them and Dragon’s ship for her to be entirely comfortable, Makino felt the keen ache of exhaustion, and Ace’s little weight, suddenly heavy in her arms.

It was also too early for any ships to be leaving, especially considering what the weather promised. Which left them only one option, really.

“Excuse me,” Sabo said, holding the door open for Makino, winning smile bright and inviting, and mannerisms hinting at a formality that sat in his bones, or a muscle memory that twelve years as a revolutionary with retrograde amnesia hadn’t been able to shake off.

“I apologise for intruding on your hospitality at this hour,” he continued, bowing his head. “But I was wondering if you had any rooms available?” He’d removed his hat, Makino saw, and had to school her face so as not to gape at the display. “And if it’s not too much trouble, if we could borrow your Den Den Mushi for a moment.”

The little old woman behind the counter lifted a brow, regarding them where they stood just beyond the entrance. “A little early for ships to be arriving,” she said, peering behind them, as though expecting more to arrive at their heels. Makino saw the way her eyes lingered on her bare feet, and hoped she couldn't tell she was wearing a nightdress under the coat. But she recognised her wariness; the same she’d often felt, on the rare occasions strangers showed up on Party’s doorstep.

She tried not to let her thoughts latch onto that; the memory of a sunny-bright day, an entire crew of pirates crowding her doorway, and Shanks' warm laughter falling into the tumult of her panic—

_Easy, now! You’re scaring the poor girl._

And despite her efforts, she’d been so thoroughly lost in that thought, she was startled when Ace suddenly gave a small, happy shriek.

But she saw the way the innkeeper’s eyes were drawn towards the sound, and the baby in Makino’s arms, awake now with his small hands fisted in her hair, babbling cheerfully. And then her countenance changed, suspicions yielding to a delighted smile.

“What a sweet baby,” she crooned, the lines of her face softening, but Makino wasn’t given the chance to open her mouth before Sabo was stepping forward, smile entirely charming.

“My sister,” he introduced Makino without missing a beat. “And my adorable nephew. We’ve come such a long way, and our mother worries if she doesn’t hear from us. She’s so concerned for her grandchild, you see, with him being so young.”

A smile that was at once kind and fondly reproachful passed across the woman’s face. “Oh, I know well how that feels. I have a son in the navy, but do you think he calls his poor old mother?” She shook her head. “ _Months_ without word, and with the state of the world I’m constantly worried sick.”

Sabo nodded along, expression entirely understanding, and then he was talking about their entirely fictional mother, living by herself now that they’d left home, and it was _so_ difficult getting a message all the way across the Grand Line, but they always tried their best, not wanting her to worry — and they were _such_ good children, the woman agreed, nodding her affirmation.

Makino kept her mouth firmly shut, acutely aware that if she attempted to contribute to the lie in any way she’d expose them for the frauds they were, although even her smile felt fake, and so she buried it in Ace’s shoulder and prayed the woman would stop asking, or that Sabo would stop engaging her in conversation.

Ace made a noise then — that soft, contented little hum that was Makino’s favourite, but when it drew the innkeeper’s gaze she felt panic alight in her chest, knowing she was going to have to answer whatever question that followed.

Old eyes glanced off the wedding ring on her finger, and, “Your husband not with you?” she asked. But the way she said it didn’t hint at suspicions, only sympathy — the kind that was common currency on these seas, which kept so many fates separated.

“He’s out at sea,” Makino said at length, and hoped she wouldn’t be asked to elaborate on what that meant. She could say he was sailor, or anything that didn’t include the navy. The innkeeper had said her son was a marine, and so Makino might be asked which division, and she was almost certain she’d burst into tears and confess if she did.

But then, and with a conviction that pushed up her throat quite without warning, “We’ll be seeing him soon,” she said, because after the events of the night and the call that awaited her, it was a truth she could _feel_ now at her fingertips.

If she found the statement curiously forceful, the woman didn’t show it, seeming only pleased at the fact. “So many lives kept apart by this sea,” she sighed, shaking her head. Then, gaze fixed on the baby, “It’s such a shame. So young, and with his father gone for long stretches of time.”

She looked at Makino then. “You be mindful of that, now. Boys without fathers grow restless, and the sea’s a tempting lady. Before you know it you’ll have a pirate on your hands, and what would your husband say?”

Oh, she could practically _feel_ Sabo’s grin, bright like a beacon, but kept hers carefully subdued as the innkeeper directed them towards the common room, still talking, but about her own son now, although Makino wasn’t paying attention, too busy trying to keep her face from revealing every single one of her thoughts.

They were ushered into the room, sitting quiet and abandoned, although that might have something to do with the fact that it wasn’t yet dawn. And with a parting promise that she was going to fetch them something to eat and that they were welcome to use the Den Den Mushi she disappeared, closing the door behind her.

Makino allowed her breath to shudder out, sinking into the nearest armchair when her feet threatened to follow suit. And it wasn’t until she’d let herself relax, the worn cushion yielding beneath her weight, that she allowed the events of the night to settle down along with her. The weight of Sabo’s jacket across her shoulders was a small comfort, and Ace’s tired coos tucked against her throat, but her breath sat, suddenly heavy in her chest, and she was aware now that her hands were shaking almost uncontrollably.

And she longed suddenly for Fuschia — for the things that had been hers. Her clothes. Her books. Her bar and her life and her husband, seeming so far out of her reach now it was like she’d imagined it, the thirty-two years leading up to this moment.

“You okay?” Sabo asked, and she thought she detected amusement in his voice, but when she looked at him the concern on his face was earnest.

Still, “Don’t look so pleased. I can’t lie to save my life,” Makino huffed. “So on your head be it if you spin a tale I can’t sell.”

He grinned. “Well, I was going to tell her that you’re the wife of one of the Four Emperors, and that I’m the second-in-command of the Revolutionary Army and that we’re currently on the lam, but I have a feeling she’d have a harder time believing that.”

She was about to tell him that she was too high-strung to appreciate his cheek, when he nodded his head across the room, and, “Speaking of your husband,” he said. “Now’s your chance.”

Her head snapped around at that, remembering suddenly what they’d come in there for, and finding the snail sitting on a table in the corner, phone and receiver attached, Makino could have wept.

Wordlessly, Sabo held out his arms, and she placed Ace into them. Dozing now, her son changed hands without protest, and then she was making for the snail.

Heart in her throat, her fingers shook as she dialled the number she could have recalled in her sleep, for all that she hadn’t used it much. Despite his long voyages, they’d kept communication to a minimum, on account of the risk of someone listening with a wire-tap. Garp had explained how they’d worked; that there were types of Den Den Mushi to intercept calls, and some, an even rarer species, to prevent calls from being intercepted. Because of it, her calls with Garp had been more frequent than those with Shanks, but she didn’t care now who might be listening as she watched the snail, staring back at her with that eerie, blank gaze.

A long moment passed, in which she almost didn’t dare breathe, and she curled her trembling fingers together to keep them from shaking so much, but still there was no response. And she felt like there was a sob building in her chest, frustrated and tired and desperate all at once, and she was so close—so _close—_

_Just pick up. Please, just—just pick up. Let me hear your voice. Please._

And in that moment, with the long months of their most recent separation and everything that had happened, Makino thought she might have given anything to hear it; the mellow cadence of his good humour, and the familiar endearments, sitting as easy on his tongue as her name, even after twelve years. And even if he’d thought them lost, he’d still attempt it, she knew. No matter the depth of his sorrow, she could imagine his response, and the naked relief at odds with words that didn’t quite manage to be playful.

_A bit late for a call, my girl?_

And she imagined that she’d respond with something clever.  _I’m sorry, Captain. Did I keep you waiting long?_

But even imagining it now, she knew she would most likely be unable to get anything clever out — that on hearing his voice she’d likely forget all her witty remarks and just burst into tears. But he’d be happy either way, and it would be enough. Even if she wanted nothing more than to see him, and to push herself as close as she'd come, until there was no space for thought between them, just hearing his voice would be _enough_.

“Are you sure you have the right number?” Sabo asked, when there was still no response.

Makino nodded, gaze still fixed on the snail, silently begging it to respond; for someone to pick up on the other end of the line. Ben, Yasopp, Lucky,  _anyone_. Her voice was hoarse when she spoke, “I’m sure.”

There was a thought, slithering in from somewhere dark, as to why there might be no answer, but she couldn’t make herself think it. There’d been no news, and they would have heard — the world would have felt it, if a crew like that had been defeated. If a pirate like Shanks had been—

“Hey,” Sabo said then, noticing her grip on the receiver. His voice was gentle. “It’s probably just the signal. And these things live lives of their own, you know? They don’t always cooperate.”

She tried to root her mind in the fact, but it was difficult, sitting with the receiver in her hand, her husband less than a phone call away and still she was as helpless to reach him as she’d been aboard Dragon’s ship. And she didn’t know if she wanted to cry or curse, but her hands shook where she gripped the receiver, and she had to press her lips together to keep calm.

“What do we do now?” she asked then, eyes still on the unresponsive snail. She could keep trying, hoping it might work, an hour or a day from now, but there was a restlessness sitting under her skin at the thought — that she should stay here on this remote island when she’d come so far, and hope she found some way to get through to him. And maybe it would be too late, after all.

No. She wouldn’t sit on her hands. She _refused,_ and she saw from Sabo’s expression that he’d caught onto her decision, because then he was saying, “I guess that leaves us with Plan B.”

Still struggling to wrap her mind around what had apparently been Plan A, Makino almost didn’t dare ask, but when she looked up at him it was to find his grin curving—

“Do you still have Red-Hair’s vivre card?”

 

—

 

The nightmare always began the same way.

He was back home, the morning quiet and their bedroom draped in the same hush —  _theirs_ now, and had been that way for some time; an odd adjustment for someone who hadn’t had any one place to call that for the past twenty years. But there were his reading glasses on the nightstand, and one of his shirts thrown across the back of the armchair. Little details that might be easily overlooked, but for someone with his way of life they were entirely significant.

But there was something off about this picture, something almost uncanny, the cries of the seagulls not quite as they should be, and the gentle breeze from the open window doing little too soothe his rising unease.

His son was on the bed, and the small noises drew him closer, until those dark eyes focused on him — his mother’s eyes, of that Shanks had no doubt, even if he knew they were likely to change a bit; that the colour could still darken or lighten. But they were wide and endearing, and however they turned out he didn’t think he’d get tired of them any more than Makino's.

“Hey, little fish,” he said, reaching out to touch his fingers to the crown of his head. Not a lot of hair yet, but the soft downy strands seemed too pale for his mother’s colouring, hinting at a truth that made his smile stretch, secretly pleased.

That toothless little grin brightened, and he’d been told it was most likely just a reflex, small things all babies go through, but it was difficult looking at a face so endearingly happy and not take it for what it suggested.

“What are you smiling for, hmm?” he asked, and when he received a _coo_ in response he laughed, the sound softer than he was known for. “Yeah, I figure if I was as cute as you I’d be smiling like that, too. Charm your mother out of her wits.”

His son watched him, those dark eyes focused on his, and Shanks sketched his thumb along a soft cheek. “Speaking of your mom,” he said then, resting his palm over Ace’s stomach. “Where’d she go?”

The baby blinked, but then Shanks hadn’t expected an answer. And he looked up now, taking in the quiet bedroom again. Even with the presence of his son there was still something that didn’t feel right, but he couldn’t seem to put his finger on what.

Footsteps outside the door then, light and familiar, and with his next breath Makino was there in the doorway, expression brightening upon catching sight of them.

“There you are,” she said, laughter in her voice, fondly chiding. “I was waiting.”

He was about to remark on that — to say that he’d been the one waiting for her, when her gaze turned to the bed, and to Ace. Her smile softening, she stepped towards where Shanks was seated, her sigh a mother's gentle lament as she murmured, “He’s growing so fast. I can barely keep up.”

Then, her eyes finding his again, something clever alighting in them, “It might be time for another one soon," Makino said. "I remember you said you’d like a girl, and it would be nice, not having them too far apart.”

And he knew what he was supposed to say now; like a line in a play he'd performed numerous times, he remembered a clever quip about being ready to go in two minutes if they could get their son to take a nap for more than half an hour, but all he could do was stare, the reality that something was _wrong_ suddenly unavoidable.

Makino’s brow furrowed then. “Shanks, what’s the matter?” she asked. And there was a word at the back of his tongue now, a warning that he recognised—that he _remembered_ —but he was too late. In the end, he was always too late.

It all happened too fast. One moment she was reaching for him, the cup of her hand against his cheek carrying a tender question, and the next the roof was collapsing, the booming drum of the explosion making his ears ring, but there was nothing he could do, his limbs trapped and his voice lodged in his throat, holding her name.

He woke to the sound of her screaming, the process a tortuously slow thing, but when he blinked his eyes open it was the ceiling of his cabin he found, no fire engulfing the room, and her voice no more than a lingering memory, even if it had cut deep, the sound dragged from some dark part of him that had seen enough battles to know intimately how _fear_ and _pain_ sounded like combined, and aided by an almost perverse imagination that seemed to refuse to leave him alone.

And he hated himself for thinking it, but he couldn’t help himself now, the nightmare still clear in his mind. He’d often teased Makino for having an over-active imagination, but now his was the problem, although he found no respite in the thought.

He wondered if it had been quick — if it had been instantaneous, or if they’d suffered. And it killed him to even consider the latter, but it slipped in despite his attempts at keeping it at bay, along with the all-consuming guilt for what his way of life had brought the two he’d held dearest.

And it didn’t help anyone, his family least of all, but he prayed now that it had been the former; that Makino hadn’t had time to feel fear, or the sinking realisation of what was happening.

Tired gaze fixed at some indeterminable point on the ceiling but seeing far beyond it, hunger asserted itself with a vengeance, and it was with a heavy reluctance that he pushed himself off the bunk. And there was guilt there, too — that he needed to eat, and sleep, and go about his day, living as though his life was the same; as though it hadn’t been irrevocably broken into something he didn’t know what to do with.

Making for the washbowl, the shock of cold from the water helped clear his mind a bit, even as the images persisted, along with that pervasive, clinging exhaustion that wouldn’t seem to relent; the feeling that he could sleep a whole year and it still wouldn’t be enough.

Then, catching sight of himself in the small mirror on the table, it took a moment to recognise what he was looking at — that it was his own reflection that stared back from the cracked glass, familiar features drawn and tired, and his hair the most unrecognisable of all, just a touch of red left amidst the grey.

And there was that familiar urge, to imagine what she’d say upon catching sight of it, but he shoved it away now, finding it suddenly too much — the pain in his chest at the mere suggestion enough to make him want to sink to his knees. And he’d thought his heart had broken already, that there was nothing left of it to break further, but it was unrelenting, and in a way that made Shanks wonder just how long a human body could take this kind of grief and keep living.

Bent over the washbowl, he focused on controlling his breathing, forcing it through his nose and into his lungs until it hurt. His hand shook where he gripped the edge of the table, and his chest felt like it was about to cave in on itself, but with effort he managed, until the pain no longer felt like he might pass out from it.

He didn’t look in the mirror again as he gingerly pushed away from the table and towards the door, feet carrying him without conscious thought down the deck to the galley, but then that was the only way; Shanks didn’t think he’d be able to get out of bed if he let himself make active decisions. And he didn’t feel the sunlight warming his back, or the sea breeze — or rather, he was unwilling, finding in the old comforts an even harder guilt than the rest, and a remnant of that recurring nightmare; the open window and the seagulls circling the Fuschia docks. The warmth of her hand against his cheek.

A murmur of surprise washed across the crew gathered as he stepped inside the galley, but he ignored it, making for the long table, too tired for greetings and whatever else they might be waiting to ask him about; a course of action, or a purpose. And he might be their captain, but right now Shanks couldn’t have found it in himself to come up with either if his life had depended on it.

Taking a seat on the bench, the cook put a bowl down before him without a word, and despite the pressing hunger, for a moment all he could do was look at it. He didn’t have the appetite to eat, but it seemed a fitting punishment somehow, making the burden of his hunger easier to bear, except it provided no real relief.

His presence having been accepted and some of the lingering awkwardness dispelled, the talk rose back up, quieter this time although it was a staggeringly welcome thing, Shanks found, as he busied himself with eating but feeling none of it, not the taste or the hunger finally relenting its grip.

“Hey, what’s wrong with the Den Den Mushi?”

The quiet query drew his gaze across the galley, towards the snail in question, and the two members of his crew considering it, their backs to where Shanks sat. “It’s not responding.”

The despondent-looking snail sat, sagging against the table, eyes closed like it had gone to sleep. A gentle poke had no effect. If anything, it only made it curl in on itself.

They shared a look, before one of them murmured, “I think it’s depressed.”

“Can’t really blame it,” came the sigh, and Shanks turned his attention away before he could catch what might follow. He already felt the loss in every presence on the ship; he didn’t think he could bear to hear them put words to it — to speak their names, when he could barely make himself think them.

“Boss?” asked a voice then, and he looked up to find three of his cabin-boys standing awkwardly by the table.

He didn’t answer, but his attention was on them, and they shared a look, before the one at the front cleared his throat. “We—we were wondering what you were planning to do about Blackbeard,” he said then.

The entire galley went silent, but Shanks kept his gaze fixed on the three boys, the first with his too-expressive face, wrought with anger and echoed by the two at his back.

And a memory resurfaced, despite all his efforts to keep them away — of his wife, pregnant stomach straining against her apron and a tray of food in her arms, batting away reaching hands as she put it on the table where his cabin-boys had been seated. They’d been her favourite; the one who liked to read who she let peruse her library, and the two who didn’t but who tried their best, bringing her paperbacks she’d already read but which she accepted without hesitation. And they were none of them orphans, but Shanks had joked more than once that she’d make their mothers jealous with her attentions.

 _They’re all skin and bones,_ Makino had protested. _You can’t make them live off ship’s food when they’re not even done growing, Shanks, they need to eat._

Then, when Lucky had opened his mouth to protest,  _You’ll all get your share later,_ she’d said, the purse of her mouth brooking no arguments.

But she’d looked at Shanks then, clever smile quirking, and he remembered how her pregnancy had made her unusually bold, and forward with her desires in a way that had been a delightful discovery. And,  _That goes double for you, Captain,_ she’d murmured, passing him by, and when the boys at the table had flushed red Shanks had burst out laughing, but it had been Yasopp who’d exclaimed, mock-scandalised—

_Ma-chan! And in front of the youngins…!_

Now they stood before him, all three wearing similar expressions, brows heavy with determination, and from somewhere crept the realisation that he’d never see his son reach this age.

“Hey,” came the warning then, rising up from across the galley, and Shanks saw Ben look up from his newspaper. “Isn’t there a deck that needs scrubbing?”

Their protests were as bright as the rest of their feelings. “But—”

“Just get to it.”

They shared another look, but with a last, desperate glance at Shanks, turned to make for the galley door, backs bent but no verbal disagreement offered.

But their words lingered, and he’d thoroughly lost his appetite now, Shanks found, staring into the half-eaten bowl, something darker than hunger gnawing at his stomach.

“They’re brash,” Ben said then, the voice dragging him away from the path his thoughts had started down. And there was another warning there, Shanks heard, even before his best friend added, “Don’t hold it against them, but don’t let it make you forget what we’re up against.”

Shanks said nothing — had nothing to offer that Ben didn’t already know. Teach had grown powerful, alarmingly so, and at such a rapid pace it was only a matter of time before it became a problem they couldn’t avoid.

And he’d known. He’d been prepared for the day he’d have to face that problem, and had considered more than once what it might mean, for the family that waited for him. He knew the limits of his own capabilities, his strengths and his weaknesses, and the thought of defeat had been _sobering_  — had pushed him into honing his skills in a way he hadn’t done since his rookie days. Because whatever happened to the world after he’d done his part in this war, he'd meant to return to them; it had been the one certainty he’d had about an otherwise unpredictable future. But now?

 _Come back to me_ , Makino had said, and Shanks felt the promise he’d given her now more than ever. Like a lifeline thrown to a drowning man, suddenly it was all he could think about, that wherever she was now in the great waters of the beyond, he’d find her, and their son. And he’d never been one for defeatism but it had never before felt like the kinder alternative; that if he didn’t live through this, perhaps it would be for the best.

And if he could take Teach down with him…

He had no idea what awaited him on the other side — if he’d done enough good in this world to be allowed to see them again when he left it. But he had to hope, even if the word had long since lost all meaning.

And he knew what she would have said to that, to the mere notion that he would welcome death, her face alight with incredulity, and anger, bright and livid across her gentle features; in her eyes most of all. But even if he couldn’t have hoped to banish the image of her now, or the sound of her voice, hard with a rare fury, the decision sat, a surprisingly easy thing to accept now that it had presented itself.

And he’d beg her forgiveness, if he could. He’d bear all her fury and her anguish and have no regrets, if it meant that she’d be there for him to beg.

The sound of running feet from outside drew him away from where his thoughts had gone, to his wife, somewhere on a nameless wharf with the sinking sun at her back, their son tucked against her chest and flowers in her hair.

Then the door slammed open, the hinges shrieking, and, “Boss!” came the breathless exclamation, sounding caught between excitement and disbelief, and something Shanks couldn’t name. But before he could look up from his meal he found his question answered in the words that followed, tumbling off an eager tongue, almost too quick to catch—

“It’s the Straw-Hats!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Charybdis: a sea monster from Greek mythology, later rationalised as a whirlpool.


	6. crown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And she returns, two months later with an update! I'm sorry—real life got a little too real, but I hope you can forgive my tardiness.
> 
> Beginning snippet is from Florence + the Machine's _Queen of Peace_ , because the Odyssey mood is real, and they're practically all I listen to when I write this ship.

oh, the king  
gone mad within his suffering  
called out for relief—

  
someone cure him of his grief.

 

* * *

 

 

Nami watched as they neared the ship, palms worrying the polished wood of the railing, fingers restless with a familiar unease — the kind that usually heralded an approaching storm, except the skies were a perfect blue and the waters offered no resistance. Ideal weather for navigating, but there was none of her usual excitement to be found as they stayed their course with little effort, the breeze nudging gently against the sails as the prow cut through the frothing waves towards the vessel in the distance.

It was bigger than Sunny, and by quite a bit, but then that was to be expected of an Emperor, Nami figured, even if it still looked staggeringly normal compared to some of the ships they’d come across so far, although the dragon figurehead cut a curiously menacing silhouette against the plain white sails.

It had been surprisingly easy tracking them down, but then they hadn’t exactly been hiding. A pirate with a reputation like Red-Hair didn’t really have to, and it hadn’t taken them long, at least not after wrangling the information from Garp, who Nami still couldn’t decide had sounded reluctant or relieved when Luffy had demanded it.

There were little loopholes for traversing the waters of the New World if you had the right means. Usually a vivre card would do the trick, but Garp had given them the name and coordinates of an island, and told them to search off the coast. And once she might have balked at the suggestion that they should wilfully put themselves into the path of yet another Emperor, even with Luffy’s assurances that this one was different, but that wasn’t the reason for her wariness now, Nami knew.

They were drawing nearer, and her unease grew, cresting with a shuddering breath as she watched Red-Hair’s ship, looming large against an endless backdrop of blue.

“My dad’s on that ship.”

Turning her head, it was to find Usopp beside her, gaze fixed on the vessel in question and a pensive press to his brow.

At her look he sighed, shoulders sinking with it. “I had it planned out, you know? How we’d meet,” he said. “I was gonna be a great pirate, and I’d have the coolest entrance. Maybe we’d be arriving in the nick of time, to save the day, and I’d say something confident, like ‘I’ll take it from here, dad’ or ‘just sit back and relax, I’ve got this’. Something like that.”

He shrugged, and it carried a distinctly awkward weight, as though he couldn’t quite shake it off. “And he’d be really proud of me. Or—the man I’d become, anyway.” A breath escaped him, too soft for a convincing scoff. “So much for that, huh?”

“He’s not going to be any less proud of you today,” Nami said. “That’s not how it works. You don’t have to prove anything.”

He made a noise; a half-affirmative sound, and when he spoke next he dragged out the word. “Yeah, but…I’d just pictured it going differently.” Then, dropping his voice, “I’m pretty sure Luffy did, too.”

She tightened her fingers around the railing. “Yeah,” she murmured. “I keep thinking about what Garp said.”

The conversation was still fresh in her mind, even though it had been well over a week. And she knew none of these people, not Red-Hair or the woman who’d apparently been his wife — had only ever heard about them from Luffy’s stories, but there was an ache in her chest now whenever she thought about it. That little village, completely obliterated. The baby who’d been named after Luffy’s brother.

Usopp’s eyes made a sweep across the deck, towards the figurehead. “He’s been quiet since we spotted the ship.”

Nami followed his gaze, finding the straw hat, and the rigid shoulders sitting beneath. Their captain had gone through several changes over the past few days, from restless pacing to familiar, desperately welcome anger, and finally to odd, quiet moments of introspection. And she could count on one hand the times she’d witnessed the latter since they’d first set out to sea together, and it always left her feeling like screaming, if only to break the pattern.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it,” she said. “Whenever he’s like that for long stretches of time. It feels like—”

Usopp looked at her. “Like what?”

Her sigh fell in turn with the shadow across Sunny’s lawn deck, obscuring the sun, and she looked up at the ship, taking in the craning neck of the figurehead and the masts rising towards the skies. A shiver skittered across her skin, making the hair on her arms rise.

“Like there’s a storm brewing.”

Usopp looked like he might voice his agreement, but fell quiet as they drew up beside the larger ship. They’d hailed it earlier and so their arrival was anticipated, but she still couldn’t shove down the rising feeling of nervousness.

She heard Luffy’s feet hit the deck, before footsteps behind them announced his approach, not so much a skip in his step, and for some reason Nami found it difficult to drag her attention away from the fact.

Someone leaned over the railing above them then; a man, grey hair pulled back in a low ponytail and his expression grave, before a strange sort of smile tugged at his mouth at the sight of them. It was too hard for genuine cheer, but something in her settled a bit at the sight of it.

“You either have the worst timing, kid,” he declared, keen gaze fixed on Luffy now. “Or the opposite.” Then, and with an exhale that carried with it more than what his words said, “But since you’re here, I guess someone told you.”

Luffy’s mouth pressed together. And they obviously knew each other, but he hadn’t offered a greeting, although Nami wasn’t surprised. It didn’t really feel like the time for it. And, “Gramps called,” he said simply, and without further explanation.

The man didn’t give a verbal affirmation to that, and his expression didn’t let slip so much as a hint that he was at all surprised to hear it. Instead he inclined is head towards something on deck, to someone standing out of sight, before he turned back and declared, “Come on up.”

She shared a look with Usopp, but Luffy was already moving, and Zoro, following suit without a word. And there was nothing more to it as they all made to follow, but she stayed towards the back with Usopp, a silent support offered, and his half-panicked expression conveyed the gratitude that he didn’t put into words.

The grey-haired man who’d addressed Luffy earlier was the first to greet them on the main deck, and he looked _tired_ , Nami thought, close enough now to see the deep lines carved into his features, and the shadows under his eyes, like he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in days. Although as she took in the rest of the crew behind him she found the same to be the case for all of them.

“Ben,” Luffy said then, drawing her eyes back from where they’d drifted, searching, but she couldn’t see their captain anywhere, and Luffy must have noticed the same thing. “Is—”

But whatever he’d meant to ask, he seemed to decide against it, although from the look of him, Ben didn’t seem to need it spoken to hear it.

“He’s not at his best,” he said, the declaration simple and without embellishment, not meant to coddle but to caution. “Just a fair warning.”

And, no doubt reading Luffy’s next question on his face, “He’s in the galley,” Ben added. “And you might want to give him a moment. Barring maybe your grandfather showing up, I think you’re the last person he expected to see today.” Then with a sigh, “And I’m wondering if he might have preferred that it was Garp.”

Luffy’s brows drew together. “He doesn’t want to see me?”

Her heart constricted at the undiluted surprise in his voice, and Ben’s expression softened a fraction. “It’s not that, kid. It’s just a little too close to home.”

Luffy said nothing to that, but something chased across his expression, too quick for Nami to catch, but before she could wonder what it was — “Does he think I’d blame him?” Luffy asked, quietly.

Ben didn’t answer, and Nami saw Luffy’s mouth open, but it was someone else who spoke up—

“Grief and blame go hand in hand,” a voice said, and Nami felt Usopp jerk beside her. And she didn’t need an introduction to recognise him; the dark blond curls and the sharp gaze.

“And once you already blame yourself it’s easy to expect the same from other people,” Usopp’s father added, with a look at Ben.

Luffy looked ready to protest, but Yasopp spoke before he could, “Don’t hold it against him, the man just lost his family. Hell, we all did,” he said, with a glance at the crew. “But take it from a father,” he added, and Nami watched as his gaze fixed on something behind her shoulder. And she didn’t need to see to know who he was looking at as he said, “There’s no worse fate imaginable than outliving your own child.”

She felt Usopp’s presence at her back, and gave his hand a squeeze where it hung limp at his side, but he didn’t speak, although Nami couldn’t really blame him — didn’t know how she would have managed, in his shoes. And she wondered just how many times he’d imagined what he’d say, but by the expression on his father’s face, it didn’t seem to matter that he said nothing at all.

“Hey, son,” Yasopp said, before the briefest flicker of a smile passed across his face, but it held enough raw feeling that it felt distinctly like she’d been struck.

She felt more than heard the breath that rushed out of Usopp—and the word, little more than a rasp, “ _Dad_.”

“I think we all thought this meeting would go differently,” Yasopp said then, before he turned his eyes to Luffy. “But don’t think that he doesn’t want to see you. It’s just a difficult time.”

Luffy still looked like he wanted to protest but said nothing, and in the silence that pooled in the wake of Yasopp’s words Nami felt the sudden urge to fill it. And she might have said something, but then the door to what must be the galley opened, and whatever words she’d hoped to offer died on her tongue before she could speak them.

She’d seen his picture in the paper once, years ago, right after she’d just set out to sea by herself and had made it a point to learn the names of the pirates she might encounter on the Grand Line—and their potential treasure hoards. Undeniably handsome, even with the vicious scars bisecting his features, but it was a drawn and tired expression that greeted them as he came to a stop, taking them all in. The hair that had given him his infamous moniker had been pulled back, and was streaked with so much grey the trademark colour looked to be fighting a losing battle.

Her gaze flickered to the tied-up shirtsleeve on his left side. And she’d asked Luffy once if he knew how Red-Hair had lost his arm, but the question had made him curiously jittery, and he’d been reluctant to talk about it. But the fact that it was an old injury was evident in the ease with which he held himself, as though it hardly fazed him.

“A little earlier than I expected to see you,” Red-Hair said, addressing Luffy, and his voice echoed the exhaustion on his face, although it wasn’t unkindly spoken.

“What,” he asked then, when Luffy didn’t respond, and Nami thought the question might have been voiced with genuine humour once, except now it only sounded tired, even as he added, “No comment on the hair?”

“Shanks,” Luffy said, and she shouldn’t be surprised, knowing her captain, but the sheer amount of unspoken things carried over with that simple utterance still caught her off guard.

And she wondered then, in the pause that followed, what Luffy was planning to do — what had been his plan in bringing them here. He’d told Garp in no uncertain terms that he had no intention of staying out of it, but he hadn’t elaborated on exactly what he’d meant by that, had only declared that he wanted to talk to Shanks, and that had been that.

And now they were here, and Luffy’s prolonged silence was beginning to make Nami nervous, although going by the expression settling over Red-Hair's face, he’d already gathered what Luffy wasn’t saying.

The sigh that pulled from him sounded older than he looked, and, “Why are you here, Luffy?” he asked then, but Nami suspected it was more for their benefit than any lack of understanding on his part.

Luffy stood his ground, and for an entirely disconcerting moment Nami had no idea what he’d say — if he would offer sympathy or anger. From his expression she couldn’t even make a guess.

Then, “What are you gonna do about Blackbeard?” Luffy asked.

As expected, Red-Hair's expression didn’t yield so much as a flicker of surprise at the question. And Nami had figured he might ask something along those lines, although not right off the bat, and she couldn’t for the life of her guess where he intended this conversation to go. Was he going to offer to help?

The thought made a shiver crawl across her back, even before Red-Hair said, almost musingly, “You’re not the first to ask me that today.”

When Luffy said nothing to that, he shrugged, the gesture a heavy, burdened thing. “I’m going to do what I should have done a long time ago,” he said, and his eyes tightened a bit at the corners. “But that’s not what you’re really here to ask, is it?”

Luffy was only quiet for a breath, before asking, “What about you?”

Red-Hair didn’t hesitate. “What happens to me doesn’t really factor into it.”

“That’s a lie.”

Luffy’s expression hadn’t changed, and the accusation was heavier than its careful speaking suggested. “You’re hoping you’ll die, aren’t you?” he asked then, and Nami started, even before he added, “No, that’s your plan. You’re counting on it.”

A murmur of unease shivered through the crew at Red-Hair’s back, and Nami watched the slight tightening of his features. And it was—blunt, but then she wondered why she was surprised.

Still, given the situation, and the person involved, she’d thought even Luffy might take a gentler approach.

“Even if I am,” Red-Hair said then, “that would be my decision to make.”

“It’s a selfish decision.”

He let out a bitter sound. “Yeah, well,” he said, and his expression hinted at a hard truth. “I am that.”

Luffy shook his head. “So you’re just gonna give up?”

“I don’t see how taking action is giving up,” Red-Hair countered.

“It is if you hope it will kill you.”

Red-Hair said nothing to that, and Luffy shifted his stance slightly, his posture defensive now, Nami saw, and, “You don’t think I know?” he asked, and she heard the rough note that slipped into his voice. “You don’t think I know what it feels like waking up and wishing you were dead? That I don’t know what it feels like to _want_ to die?”

And there it was, the thing that had weighed so heavily across the whole crew for the past week; the old ghost of a loss that would never fully go away, Nami knew — knew, because she had her own ghost, and no matter how many years passed there would always be part of her that would cling to that little girl, reaching out for a mother who’d never reach back.

Red-Hair's expression softened a fraction, but the hard press of his mouth was unyielding. “I’m sorry about what happened to your brother,” he said, and even though Nami heard the genuine regret in that statement, it was a harder voice that added, “but this is different.”

Luffy bristled. “How?”

“It just is.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“Look,” Red-Hair said, and there was an edge to his voice now. “I’ve got twenty years on you, kid.” But despite the hard quality of his voice, Nami found the words rang strangely hollow. “And frankly, you have more to live for than I do.”

Nami watched Luffy’s shoulders tense. “Don’t say that like I don’t understand.”

“No offence,” Red-Hair said. “But you don—”

_“I felt his heart stop beating!”_

The words struck out across the deck, along with a tremor in the air that was acutely familiar, but Red-Hair didn’t so much as flinch.

“Ace,” Luffy said then, voice little more than a rasp, and this time Red-Hair _reacted,_ seeming to recoil at the name. But it wasn’t an accusation, just a hard fact, although Nami felt that made it worse, somehow. “I have to remember _that_ ,” Luffy bit off the words. “At least you don’t.”

She sucked in a breath, but then, and likely before Red-Hair could offer a protest, “And Ma-chan,” Luffy said, hard voice breaking over the endearment, “You don’t think I’m hurting, too?”

“It’s not the same,” Red-Hair repeated, the retort sharp — defensive now, and Nami had the sudden worry that Luffy was pushing too hard; that it was one thing to offer your understanding, and quite another to start comparing your suffering to another’s.

Luffy’s expression contorted then; settled into something she couldn’t read. “You were gone,” he said then, and this did sound like an accusation, Nami was startled to discover, but before she could open her mouth Luffy was pushing forward. “So what if you came back? You weren’t there _._ I was. And she’s—” She heard his voice waver, but he didn’t relent, “I can’t remember her ever _not_ being there.”

There was a moment of silence, in which she thought the whole deck was holding its collective breath.

“She’d never forgive you,” Luffy said. “If you gave up, she’d _never_ forgive you. And if you don’t know that, then you didn’t know her at all.”

Nami gaped. “Luffy—”

“Do you still want to die?” Luffy asked, cutting her off, the question flung out like a punch. “Knowing that?”

Red-Hair didn’t answer, but his silence was answer enough, Nami found. And he looked— _resigned_ , she thought, and felt suddenly that it would have been better if he’d been angry. But instead of pushing back against Luffy’s accusations he seemed to be accepting them; as though he’d made his decision already, and that what Luffy was saying now wasn’t anything he hadn’t already considered.

And she realised then, that she recognised it — that the ache behind her ribcage was a kindred thing, because she knew that kind of resignation intimately; the realisation that there was no hope left. The numbing tiredness that settled when you stopped fighting.

Luffy fell silent, and Nami wondered what he might say; if, faced with Red-Hair’s lack of response, he might decide to start shouting. And there was an acute sense of _wrongness_ about the whole scene, like they’d been put on a stage with a different script than they’d rehearsed, and were making a mess of things. This wasn’t the way this meeting was supposed to go, and she remembered Luffy’s enthusiasm from whenever the man in question was brought up, the one watching them warily from across the deck now, expression hard and holding none of the good humour Luffy’s stories had promised.

She hoped then, that Luffy would shout — that there’d be enough anger to fill the yawning void of grief and blame and guilt that sat in the air, like the tell-tale pressure that always preceded the first crack of lightning. Because it would better; _anything_ would be better if it would shake loose the near unbearable tension that seemed to have draped across the deck.

And she thought he might, watching the rigid lines of his back, as though his entire body was strung to the point of snapping, like he was one breath away from letting loose a whole week’s worth of tension and grief.

But whatever she’d expected or hoped for, it wasn’t what they got, as Luffy lifted his chin, and announced, unnervingly calm—

“Then you can have the hat back.”

 

—

 

The words fell into the space between them with a weight that _settled_ , and Shanks watched the reactions shift across the expressions of the crew at Luffy’s back, most of them incredulous, except for the moss-haired kid, who seemed to have expected something of the like.

“If you’re giving up,” Luffy continued, still with that carefully maintained composure that was so wildly at odds with the boy he remembered. “Then you’re not the man I thought you were. And if that’s true then I don’t want it anymore.”

And then he calmly plucked the straw hat off his head, and tossed it at the deck at Shanks’ feet.

The silence that followed stretched, long and damning, and for a moment he didn’t breathe, gaze locked on the hat, discarded as though without so much as a second thought. And knowing Luffy that might well be the case, and the implication behind the gesture was all the worse for it.

He couldn’t drag his eyes away, and he felt keenly the presence of his crew at his back; felt the weight of each individual life under his command, each and every one familiar, and all eyes trained on him now, waiting. And even through the bottomless mire of grief there was something — the barest tremor of anticipation, and it shot through him like he’d been physically struck.

And after a week spent carrying the weight of an entire crew’s worth of sorrow, the momentary respite from it—less than a second, barely enough for a single, starved breath—allowed his mind to clear, if only long enough to _see_ what he was looking at.

He bent down to pick it up, fingers curling around the familiar brim, the edges rough and scraping against his palm as he turned it over. Someone had sown in a new ribbon, and a string; a small aid for an owner who rarely sat still. And even though it showed signs of wear, it had obviously been cared for. But then he’d never expected anything else, had he?

 _I can’t believe you didn’t tell him it was your captain’s hat,_ Makino had told him once, her exasperation too fond to be properly condemning. _You know how much he idolises Roger._

 _I know,_ Shanks had agreed. And he remembered the scene — could conjure it clearly; the common room at Party’s, empty save for the two of them, and Ace asleep in the sling tucked against his chest, the one she'd made for him. He’d been considering Luffy’s most recent wanted poster; the altered picture, but the smile still the same, and the straw hat perched on his head.

_I guess I didn’t want it to carry that significance—maybe he’d find it too heavy one day. Idols should be there to inspire, not be a burden. Better he thinks it’s just a hat._

_He thinks it’s_ your _hat_ , Makino had pointed out.

He’d laughed, careful not to wake the baby. _I’m not much of an idol._

_No? I think a certain someone would beg to differ._

He knew who she’d meant, but the words had felt meaningful for an entirely different reason, watching his son sleeping.

 _Even so, it’s his now,_ he’d said at length. _It doesn’t matter who wore it before him._

She’d looked at him then, with that uncanny way she’d had — the kind of look that _saw_ , every part of him, even when he couldn’t quite see himself.

_Doesn’t it?_

Shanks looked at Luffy now, taller than he had been, all sharp edges and bony knees, but his feet planted firmly and his back straight. And there were no tears in sight, only a hard sort of determination, and between one breath and the next he saw Roger, expression fierce and unyielding — bright with the will that had laid all the seas at his feet.

_You don’t get to choose how people see you, Shanks. It’s the one thing in this world you can be sure about. You might find yourself a hero in some stories, and a villain in others._

_I think I’d make a pretty lousy villain, Captain. Buggy says I’m too lazy._

_Hah! Yeah, he might have a point. Better try your luck at being someone’s hero, then._

_Nah. I’d have to do something heroic. That takes effort._

He remembered the grin that remark had sparked. Out of all his memories of Roger, that was one of the clearest. And he remembered the words that had followed, spoken around a burst of laughter, before a hand had reached out to flick the brim of the straw hat on his head—

_Not as much as you think._

A sigh then, shaking loose of what felt like his entire body, and he knew his smile was a bitter thing, but it was the most he’d managed in over a week.

“You went and grew up, didn’t you?” Shanks asked, and knew there was a time the words might have been spoken with playful indignation. In the future that might have been — the one that should have been, where this meeting would have gone differently, and his pride wouldn’t be stained by so much sorrow.

He thought then, of the baby who’d never be older, and the wife he’d left for the last time. And it hurt to think about, but then it hurt to breathe these days, revisiting the realisation that they weren’t in this world anymore; that it wasn’t just a few seas’ worth of distance between them, and that there would be no one there to greet him when he returned home — that there was no home to return to, without them.

It would be easier to forget, the things he’d promised her — the island, and the future he’d set his heart on. And even if that future would never come to pass now and he’d never be a father again, he still had some responsibility; a different legacy to oversee. She wouldn’t have wanted him to forget, even if it hurt, remembering; even if it killed him, thinking about Ace, and the children they might have had. She wouldn’t have wanted him to give up.

No. Shanks knew exactly what Makino would have wanted him to do.

He held out the hat, the scene familiar, but the gesture a different kind than it had been, one that asked now instead of offered. But there was a promise there as well, except now it was his to make, and even if he didn’t say the words—was still trying to figure out how to go on living, how to _want_ to go on living—Shanks had the feeling Luffy understood anyway, when he accepted it back.

And, “It’s not over,” Luffy said, wearing Roger’s hat. And they were Roger’s words and Roger’s determination, but Shanks remembered the captain who’d gone to the gallows and hadn’t come back.

Still, he nodded, and hoped—like he’d hoped he’d one day know the meaning behind his old captain’s words—that he’d one day feel that same surety himself.

 

—

 

“Ready to go?”

Makino turned her eyes from the towering grove to see Sabo stepping up beside her, the door to the inn sliding shut behind him. She was glad to see the last of it — in the days since they’d taken their leave of Dragon’s ship it wasn’t the worst they’d come across, but it had been far from friendly, although she’d felt that same, curiously unwelcoming atmosphere since she’d stepped off the ship that had brought them to Sabaody.

She was eager to put the whole of it behind her, even if it meant braving the sea beyond the Red Line, and waters with an even worse reputation than those now at her back.

And to think she’d never once been out of East Blue before this.

 _You’d laugh_ , she thought, imagining the sound of it. Her husband’s face, bright with shameless amusement, and the kind of fondness that took your breath away. _If you saw me now, scared out of my wits by a little water, you’d laugh._ She tried to draw some comfort from the fact. _So much for a pirate’s wife._

“Not really,” she told Sabo with a breath. “But if the alternative is to stay here another night then I’ll take my chances with the open sea,” she added, sparing a furtive glance at the busy street. She’d never seen a place with so many _people_ before, all crammed together in the same space, and at first she’d thought that was the reason for her anxiety, before Sabo had told her to be careful; that Sabaody hadn’t been same since the war, and that with his reputation they should make a point of laying low.

He’d pulled the brim of his hat down, shielding his eyes, and she wondered suddenly what it must feel like, being wanted by the authorities. And at least there was some comfort in that, she thought — the fact that in this seemingly endless crowd of people there was no one who knew who she was, and no one to recognise her face from a wanted poster.

Of course, she wasn’t entirely inconspicuous, for those who knew what to look for, although she tried not to think too much about that.

A small noise made her look down to where Ace sat tucked against her chest, and despite the overwhelming impressions all around her, Makino found comfort in the sight; the little head craning to take in the towering trees, and the strange bubbles rising towards the canopy — the occasional 'pop' of which made his eyes blink, mesmerised.

Rubbing her thumb along his cheek, she cupped the back of his head, adjusting the knitted hat pulled down over his hair.

“I know you meant for the hat to make him a little less conspicuous,” Makino said, tweaking one of the tiny knitted ears poking up from the top of it. “But I think it’s having the opposite effect.”

As though to emphasise her point, a woman passing by them made a keening noise, attention momentarily claimed by the baby, and Makino was relieved when she didn’t come over. Enough people had done so already, seeming to have no trouble infringing on her personal space, as though her son was somehow an invitation to do so. The adorable hat hadn’t exactly helped matters.

From beside her, Sabo grinned. “I would have gotten him goggles to go with it if I’d found any that would fit, but his head is too small.”

Her sigh held a laugh, and she rocked Ace gently. “I’m glad you didn’t—we’d get nowhere.”

She didn’t say that she was surprised they’d gotten this far, the remark feeling a little too pessimistic for comfort, as though she’d be inviting trouble speaking it. Although given that she had no sea legs to speak of, was prone to violent bouts of seasickness, and the fact that they were travelling with an eight-month old baby, Makino suspected she was at least due her share of honest scepticism if she felt like it.

Of course, that always made her think of Shanks, optimistic beyond what was entirely healthy, but there was a familiar comfort in the thought, Makino found. He’d tell her to treat it like an adventure, no doubt — that the sea could only do so much, and as long as you could keep your head above water you’d get further than most.

 _Easy for you to say_ , she mused to herself. _You were always the better swimmer._

And she could imagine his response to that, too.  _Says the woman with two arms!_ he’d laugh, mock petulant, but he’d always maintained a staggeringly good humour when it came to his amputation.

 _You’d look graceful drowning, at the very least,_ he’d sigh. _Unlike me. And don’t think I’ve forgotten about that time I convinced you to go skinny dipping with me and you laughed until you cried._

A breath brought her back to the busy street before she could lose herself completely in the memory — that quiet afternoon less than a year ago, sunlight spilling through the canopy over the little lagoon and the scars on his back. She’d been pregnant, her stomach straining, and she’d joked that she didn’t look much better, bobbing like a cork.

“You want me to carry him?” Sabo asked, as she adjusted the sash wrapped around her torso, and around Ace, but Makino shook her head.

“I’m good for now.”

It was something of a godsend, allowing her to carry him and keep both arms free. She’d fashioned a similar contraption for Shanks once, when Ace had been just a few days old and she’d needed all the help she could get, her stitches still healing and Doc having none of her stubbornness. And he’d taken to using it even after she’d recovered, although she hadn’t voiced a complaint. It had been an undeniably endearing sight.

The thought brought about a familiar pang of longing, and what she now recognised as _homesickness,_ acute in a way that it often left her short of breath, as though her chest was about to cave in from the pressure.

And it didn’t help that she was miles away from the one person who could have alleviated that feeling; the only one who could have made it all bearable, strange seas and over-crowded islands. _Home_ had once been such a firm concept in her mind, rooted so deep she’d never imagined anything could touch it — Fuschia and her tavern, and Shanks seated at the bar, their son fast asleep in the crook of his arm. Now, alone with their son and Fuschia nothing but a memory, it felt like the very foundation of her life had shifted.

Although, watching Ace now, head still craning to take in the sights around him, dark eyes wide and curious, Makino wondered if anything had really changed. Because it had always been Shanks, Fuschia or no Fuschia. That hadn’t changed, and wouldn’t, if she had anything to say about it.

She allowed her eyes to take in the crowded street, feeling again that restless itch to leave, to go somewhere quiet, even if it meant braving a sea that few people were said to return from alive. But she wanted off this island — wouldn’t have wanted to set foot on it in the first place, if it hadn’t been for the fact that it was apparently the only way into the New World, although when she’d asked Sabo about it he’d been curiously evasive.

Dragon’s ship had entered the Grand Line just shy of the half-way point, as Sabo called it; the stretch of mainland separating the first half from the New World, which was where Shanks was. And Luffy.

She considered the vivre card in her hand, tucked between her fingers where she’d curled them around Ace’s back. Slightly warm to the touch, in that uncanny way that marked it as something other than simple paper; but it was whole, still; not so much as a single tear in sight. And that was what had kept her going, after failing to reach him via Den Den Mushi — the knowledge that whatever was keeping her from reaching him, he wasn’t hurt. Not physically, at least.

But the sheaf of paper gave away very little else, and even though she knew he was alive, Makino had no idea how he was holding up.

She’d hoped, desperately, those first few days aboard Dragon’s ship, that he wouldn’t be fooled so easily — that he’d realise something was wrong, or that he’d somehow _know_ they weren’t dead. Because she’d read enough tragic novels in her life to know where this was going, and that it was usually the prelude to something terrible; a reckless choice made, by a broken heart with nothing left to lose.

 _My fool man_ , she thought now, and had to fight from being overwhelmed by the sudden surge of feeling within her — desperation, and fury, familiar now after all she’d been through, for all that she’d never been prone to anger. _Don’t you dare. Don’t you **dare**._

“I’m thinking our best shot is to book ourselves passage on a ship,” Sabo said then, considering the throng of people pushing their way past them, and Makino blinked, coming back to herself. “That, or get a vessel of our own and have it coated, but that might be difficult, seeing as we’re only two and I’m the only one with sailing experience.”

Makino nodded absently, hearing the words, but finding it hard to focus on what he was saying. It hadn’t been a long voyage from that first island they’d disembarked on, barefoot and still in her nightclothes, but she’d been welcomed rather rudely to the fact that sailing the Grand Line without the safety provided by Dragon’s ship was an entirely different experience.

And it wouldn’t get any better, considering where they were going.

“Hey,” Sabo said then, and when she looked up it was to find his expression contorted with worry. “Everything okay?”

There was an automatic response at the tip of her tongue — an assurance that she was fine, and that they should get moving. But her earlier thoughts wouldn’t leave her now that she’d given them the chance to settle — the thought of what Shanks might do if they didn’t reach him soon. And what was worse, the pressing fear that she wouldn’t be able to handle it, the voyage that awaited them. That for all her determination, she wasn’t strong enough.

And so, “No,” she said honestly, smoothing her hand over Ace’s back. He made a small sound, a happy hum, and she pressed her lips to the top of his head. She’d never forgive herself if anything happened to him, or to Shanks, but the fact that it all felt like it was out of her hands no matter what she did…

Sabo’s expression softened with understanding. “Thinking about Red-Hair?”

Her nod was stiff. “I’m worried,” she said, putting words to it now — the thoughts that chased her off to sleep, and that slinked at her heels in all her waking hours. “He’s—” But _impulsive_ felt like the wrong word, because he might act on his gut more often than not, but her husband wasn’t a short-sighted man. Quite the contrary.

But he was also a fiercely righteous man, and if he believed what the papers said…

“I know,” Sabo said then, and when she looked up now it was to find his expression changed, something harder having settled across his features. “When you’re blinded by grief, it’s easy to lose yourself. That’s what you’re afraid of, isn’t it?”

She nodded. Then, around what felt like a choked sob, and she hated herself for it — for not being _stronger_. “I hate this. I just—” Dragging in a breath, she forced herself to calm down, until she could speak without her voice breaking. And _I just want to go home_ was what she’d meant to say, but found the same truth in the words she spoke instead, “I just want to see him,” Makino said. “Before—” She drew a breath, and tightened her grip around Ace. “Before something happens.”

Sabo’s mouth tightened. “I’ll make sure you do.” Then, reaching out to tug at one of the ears on Ace’s hat, the corner of his mouth quirking, “Both of you.”

Makino looked at him, and the swell of gratitude was as sudden as it was fierce — and evident on her face, going by the way Sabo’s brows raised in question.

“Sabo,” she said, softly. “Thank you.”

His grin was sheepish, but tinged with a hint of genuine regret. “Hey, I’m the one trying to make amends here.”

“Still,” Makino said. “You didn’t have to. And I wouldn’t have made it this far without you.”

That made him smile in earnest. “You don’t give yourself enough credit. You’d convince some poor pirate to take you all the way to Raftel if you put your mind to it.”

The look she gave him was dubious, but her smile threatened. “I would have to tell them the truth, then—I wouldn’t be able to come up with a convincing cover story. Even one as simple as the one you made.”

“Hey, I put a lot of thought into that!” he laughed. “Although to be fair, Koala is usually better at coming up with these things. She’d make it more exciting, at least—maybe you’d be runaway royalty.” He shrugged. “I’m more practically inclined.”

She was tempted to tell him there was a time in her life she might have fancied herself a runaway queen or princess — the girl who’d lived her life vicariously through adventure stories and great romances. But she’d long since come to learn that real life held just as much excitement, and in far simpler things.

“I’d rather be your sister,” she said, “than some runaway queen.”

The way his features brightened at that made her heart ache, but for once it was a bearable thing. “I never had a sister,” Sabo mused, reaching out to pinch Ace’s foot, and prompting a toothless grin. “And I wouldn’t mind a nephew.”

Her laugh sounded thick. “Don’t tempt me. I’ll be expecting you to come babysit.”

He grinned. “Yeah?”

Makino nodded. “And often.”

“I’ll make room in my schedule.”

“Between toppling the World Government and bringing about the revolution, you mean?”

“And hopefully with time left for lunch,” he quipped, his smile bright, and despite her earlier worries Makino felt the weight on her chest lessen a bit, thinking about it — an island somewhere, the one Shanks had promised her, and their son, allowed to grow up safe. A nameless number of hungry revolutionaries and pirates wandering in and out their doors, and her husband, home to stay and at ease at long last.

She’d brave more than just a dangerous sea for that future.

“Come on,” Sabo said then, as though reading her conviction on her face. “We should find a ship if we want to get going before sundown. And preferably one that’s already been coated.”

Makino nodded, and was about to follow when her eyes caught sight of something in the crowd, and she blinked—and had to do a double-take, but when she searched the shifting mass of people, she’d lost sight of what she’d seen. Or what she thought she’d seen, anyway. _It can’t have been._

“What’s wrong?”

“Ah—nothing,” she said, shaking her head. “I just—I thought I saw someone familiar.”

She didn’t say _Dadan_ , because the thought was too ludicrous to consider. No, she was seeing things, desperately grasping for something familiar, in a world full of things she didn’t know.

“Wait—Sabo,” she said then, brows slanting downwards in a frown as his words finally registered. And when he turned toward her, expression entirely innocent, Makino feared what she was asking.

“What did you mean when you said we should find a ship that’s been ‘coated’?”

 

—

 

They made the graves on a small hill overlooking the sea, in the generous shade of a tree that stretched its branches towards the skies. A nameless little island, a small pocket of peace in a turbulent ocean, and it was all he could do; the only promise he could keep now, giving them a place to rest.

The others were back with the ships. Yasopp would be catching up with his son, and Shanks tried to ignore the pang of sorrow at the thought, and the bitter guilt at the relief that he wasn’t there to witness it. An ugly thing to feel after so many years of hearing his stories about the boy, but with the thought sat the knowledge that if anyone would understand, it would be Yasopp.

Luffy stood at his back, tellingly silent, and Shanks doubted his gratitude conveyed, but sensed that Luffy knew, anyway.

They’d covered the graves with flowers; white ones, not the same that she’d worn on their wedding day, but it was the closest he’d been able to find. And he watched them now, pale against the dark earth, and thought of her smile when she’d pinned them to her hair, and her laughter when he’d pulled them back out.

The watercolour book was small enough to fit into his palm, but it felt heavy in his hand now as he placed it down, nestled amidst the flowers. And he hadn’t thought about the fact that he would have to stop looking for books now; that there was no one to collect them for, and for a moment he hesitated, a sudden, desperate indecision gripping him, before he let the book go.

He refused to remove his wedding ring — didn’t think he’d have the strength even if he’d wanted to. He needed one thing to hold on to, when he had nothing else of her left. A reminder that he had been her husband, if only for a little while. A father to their son for even less than that.

Luffy still hadn’t said anything, but it was a small comfort, not having to do this alone. And Ben would have offered, Shanks knew, but there’d been a silent understanding when they’d disembarked that this was something they had to do.

The tree wasn’t exactly like the one in Fuschia that she’d liked to sit beneath and read, but Luffy had been the one to find the spot, and there’d been an understanding there, too, between those who’d known her, and the best parts of her heart; the little things that had made her who she was.

But despite himself, and the part of him that knew why he’d said it, Luffy’s words from earlier lingered. And it wasn’t the first time that he thought about it; the years he’d been gone that he could have had with her. The months he’d missed of Ace’s life. Wisdom in hindsight, and there was no relief from that, and Shanks doubted there ever would be as long as he lived.

Reaching out, he touched his fingertips against one of the flowers, and welcomed the memory now, of how she’d been at their wedding — cheeks flushed from foreign sake and her hair coming loose, flower petals spilling across the deck of his ship. And she’d laughed until she hadn’t been able to stand up straight, and when he’d hoisted her over his shoulder she’d drunkenly declared her intentions to the entire crew, of finally getting him out of his hideous pants.

_They’ll look better on the floor of your cabin—wait, why do you look so scandalised, Captain? I’m just doing a public service!_

“Gramps told me,” Luffy said then, dragging Shanks’ thoughts back, away from the Fuschia sunset and Makino’s laughter, “that she was the reason you came back to Fuschia so much.”

He nodded, and there was a pause before Luffy asked, “Didn’t you ever think about taking her with you?”

Shanks let out a breath, not quite a laugh, but then he no longer felt like he had it in him. “I asked,” he said, remembering her surprise, and her accusation that he wasn’t serious. “And she told me to give her ten years, so I did. Then Ace was born, and we thought it was for the best that they stayed.”

They’d thought it had been the safest option, and even though it had become a well-visited thought, it hadn’t softened the regret in the least. Or the guilt.

He lifted his gaze from the grave then, to find Luffy’s expression heavy with thought, and something that looked like a newfound realisation; a bright, starkly unhappy thing. “She stayed because of me, didn’t she?” he asked. “Back then.”

“She stayed because she wanted to, Luffy,” Shanks said. “She never wanted that life. The life of a pirate.”

“But she married _you_.”

Shanks closed his eyes, and he might have smiled if it didn’t feel beyond him. “Yeah,” he said. And he didn’t care that the tears came, or that Luffy saw. "She did that."

Luffy fell quiet again, and when Shanks looked at him next he’d turned his gaze down, the brim of the straw hat pulled low over his brow.

“She was proud of you,” he said then, and watched Luffy start. “She had every single one of your wanted posters stapled to the wall, and every newspaper clipping she could get her hands on.” He’d teased her that she’d have no room left on her walls if this continued, but he’d understood her reasons — the small, physical reminders that as long as the Government kept upping the numbers, at least it meant Luffy was alive, and living free.

“You made her worry a lot, too,” he added, remembering the way she’d pluck the morning paper from his hand before he’d even had the chance to read it. And he’d thought then, how she would be when it was Ace’s turn, or whichever of their children set their sights on the sea first.

And _that_ would never stop hurting, Shanks thought — the future that had been so clear in his mind, but that it still took effort to remember would never come about.

“After the war,” he began, willing the words to come now. He hadn’t even talked to Ben about this. “When Ace was born, I thought that here was something I’d done right — something that _was_ right. After everything that happened, everything that went wrong at Marineford, it was almost too good to be true. And I can’t decide if it was naive of me to think it would be allowed to stay that way. That the world would allow it.”

It did feel that way, watching the graves now — that he’d only been tempting fate, believing he might be allowed this, when he’d witnessed so many times what the world made of pirates who thought they could have more than just a life at sea.

But he remembered Makino’s defiance; the way she’d looked at him, all of him, and chosen him anyway. And if it was a fool’s choice to choose happiness, he’d be that. And he would have chosen those few years with her all over again, if he could—would have chosen those few months with their son—than to have lived his life without them.

“The last time I saw them,” Shanks continued, when Luffy hadn’t spoken. “He was just a few months old. Small enough to fit into my arm. And you think you’re prepared for it, how much a life like that will change you, but you’re not.”

He glanced at Luffy then. “You would have liked him,” he said. “He smiled a lot.”

He remembered the baby who’d looked at him and grinned, toothless smile prompted by nothing but his presence, and those new eyes that had taken in the scars and the missing arm — who’d never known him as anything else, and hadn’t so much as flinched.

He’d wondered once, before his son had been born, if he’d be a good father. The answer had never felt further out of his reach than it did now.

“I never had a dad,” Luffy said then, as though plucking the words from his mind, and drawing Shanks’ gaze back from the graves. “I don’t know what they’re supposed to be like, but—” He shrugged. “I kinda wished that you were mine, back then.” He dropped his gaze, as though embarrassed, “Ma-chan, too.”

But then he raised his eyes, and, “You were good parents,” he said, with so much conviction it left Shanks short of breath. And he didn’t specify who he was talking about, even as he added, softly, “Ace was lucky.”

And he didn’t know what to say to that, because it was one thing to have someone know you for what you were because they had no other choice—a father, and how many sons had ever scoffed at that word?—but to have someone _choose_ you if they could...

He looked at the straw hat again, and he thought of Roger’s words— _you don’t get to choose how people see you, Shanks—_ and wondered at the truth in them. The girl in the backwater port who’d seen right past the scars and the smiles, and loved him for both; for all he was, and had been. And the kid who wasn’t a kid anymore, who’d seen him and refused to accept who he’d almost let himself become.

“Shanks,” Luffy said, voice rough now, but he maintained that same, determined composure that refused to bend, even as he said, and with that terrible weight of understanding, “I’m sorry.”

Shanks sighed. “I know, kid,” he said, looking back at the graves — the white flowers, and the book with the watercolour pictures. Little things that had ceased to matter along with the lives he’d connected them to, but he watched them now, and wondered what kind of life awaited him after this — if anything would ever matter as much as they had.

“I know.”

 

—

 

They were back at Sunny, and in the galley when Luffy entered, coming to a stop just beyond the doorway as the door swung shut behind him. And for a moment he did nothing, just stood still, and Nami wondered if he might say something when his chest heaved; one great, shuddering breath, before he crumbled.

Usopp was the first to reach him, and then they were all moving, hands and elbows bumping together and not enough space for them all but it didn’t matter. And it was a wordless grief, a whole week’s worth of it bearing down on him now, and so there were no words for them to offer that would help, only hands gripping, holding him up.

She wondered how much willpower it had taken him to wait, but she didn’t ask — wouldn’t, because she could make a fair guess watching Luffy now, back bent and sobs hard, racking things.

And she wondered what they would do, after this. Because even with the straw hat back in his keeping there was no sense of a resolution having been reached, despite Red-Hair’s promise, and the unease that had followed her ever since Garp’s call hadn’t relented.

If anything, it only seemed to solidify her fear that something worse was coming.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The hurt/comfort aspect of this fic is still a little heavy on the 'hurt' side, but it gets better. I think. But if it gets to be too much, just do what I do - picture Shanks with that baby sling.
> 
> Seriously, though. Shanks with a baby sling. You can add that to my list of kinks, along with 'Shanks with reading glasses' and 'Shanks with a low ponytail'.
> 
> Yes. You now know this about me.


	7. strings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wanted to get an extra update out, because it's the ever-lovely rhdina's birthday this week! Happy birthday, my friend. Without you, this fic would be no more than an idea existing inside my head. Your comments keep me going, and your enthusiasm for this pairing and this series is the greatest thing a starving writer could ask for. You are a blessing.

The sea swept out on all sides, the dark mirror of the water seeming everlasting, and so still it was almost impossible to tell where the ocean stopped and the night sky began. But if he focused he could just pick out the dark line of the horizon, distorted by the thick cluster of stars scattered overhead, a haphazard pattern of familiar constellations that he knew by heart. One of his favourite vistas, and even though there was none of his usual joy to be derived from the sight, Shanks found a much longed-for peace in the quiet. A moment claimed for himself, to breathe if nothing else.

Luffy’s crew were on board, their ship anchored in Red Force’s shadow. They’d lingered, and for several reasons, Shanks suspected; the first being Yasopp, and the second being him, and his questionable mental faculties at present.

He hadn’t been lying when he’d made his promise to Luffy that he wouldn’t give up, but he knew why there might be lingering traces of doubt. Because for all that he’d told him he didn’t understand—a petty thing to say, sparked by grief, but inexcusable either way—Shanks knew Luffy did, which was doubtless why he’d made the decision to stay; the knowledge that a heart could waver, even one that had made its choice. But he still seemed to have accepted, at least ostensibly, that Shanks wasn't bluffing.

Ben had been less than considerate in his response to their conversation — to the truth behind Shanks’ conviction that Luffy had announced to the entire ship.

 _If you think we’d let you get away with some kind of last-ditch suicide run,_ he’d said, expression hard and holding no trace of humour, even as he added, _You’re an even bigger idiot that I had you pegged._

 _And the kid’s right,_ Ben had continued, when Shanks had offered no comeback. But there’d been no point in arguing. Ben was right, in that as well as what he’d said next.

 _If you think she'd forgive you for that, you really didn't know her._ _And I know she's_ _let you get away with a lot of crap over the years. She was understanding like that, but you’d be doing her memory an injustice if you pulled something like this._

That had stung. But it had been well-deserved, and Shanks hadn’t protested it, or Ben’s vow.

 _We’ll take down Blackbeard,_ he'd said, a rare anger slipping past his usual composure.  _And you'll find a way to keep living._

Then, and with more conviction than he'd probably been feeling, Ben had said, _and that’s how you let them rest._

Drawing in a lungful of air, Shanks let it fill his chest, and allowed his own resolve to harden; a conviction rooted in anger now, not grief. And he would need it, he knew, if he hoped to have a chance at convincing himself that he _wanted_ this — to live, beyond defeating Teach.

The door to the galley opened, letting slip a sliver of light and conversation into the quiet; not even close to the volume it would have been, had the situation been a different one. But it was something, and part of him was relieved to find that shred of normalcy, at the same time that he felt the keen clench of guilt, knowing that nothing would ever be normal again.

The door swung shut, followed by footsteps across the planks behind him, before a voice spoke up. “Figured I’d find you here.”

Shanks inclined his head to watch Yasopp come to a stop beside him where he’d taken a seat, a bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other. And it was a wordless offering, and a wordless acceptance as he put the glasses down, and filled them both to the brim.

Shanks didn’t touch his at once, even as Yasopp tossed his own back, before refilling it. But when he nudged it against Shanks', not a demand but a suggestion, he reached for the glass, and the burn of the alcohol down the back of his throat was a desperately welcome thing.

Yasopp put his glass down, a sigh slipping into the quiet. “It’s not the same without you, Cap,” he declared. And he didn’t say what he was referring to, but given where he’d come from, he didn’t need to.

Shanks considered the bottom of his glass. And he’d stopped running from the memories now, and the little things that sparked them. The bottom of a polished glass held the concentrated pull of her expression, the light purse of her lips and the furrow to her brow as she held one up against the light, searching for smudges, meticulous in all her little movements and her face an open canvas of all her feelings.

And there would be other things; a crack in the glass and he’d think of that sunny-warm day, picking the pieces from the cup of her palm, and the way her kerchief had slipped from her hair when he’d dipped his fingers into it. The day Ace had been born, when, ten hours into a twenty-hour labour, she’d grabbed his hand between contractions and told him that someone ought to clean up the glass she’d dropped.

He was startled by the urge to smile, the feeling so sudden and unexpected it left him momentarily short of breath. And he didn’t know if Yasopp could tell, and if he could, what he took from it, but his old friend said nothing, only refilled their glasses, a small, knowing smile tucked into the corner of his mouth.

A moment passed, wherein Shanks considered his second drink. And there was an understanding there — that if he said nothing Yasopp wouldn’t demand anything more. It was an offer of companionship, without conditions, and from someone with a unique understanding of what he was going through.

And he could just accept it, Shanks knew — the drinks and the silence. But there was a swell of gratitude pushing up his chest now, and he felt suddenly, startlingly, that for all that he wanted _peace_ , he didn’t want silence.

“Usopp?” Shanks asked then, and he could tell from Yasopp’s raised brows that he hadn’t expected him to, but from the smile that tugged at his mouth next, that he was happy he did.

“A born storyteller,” he laughed softly, glancing back towards the galley, where the muffled sound of conversation crept through the planks into the night. “And with a penchant for gross exaggeration. You’d like him.”

Shanks tried for a smile, but it wouldn’t come. And it was an ugly feeling, that reluctance — the one that sat like a festering wound, faced with the prospect of meeting Yasopp’s son, when he would never again see his own. And it was shame, the feeling that followed at its heels. Shame that he wasn’t better than this, that he couldn’t _be_ better, both captain and friend.

“Hey,” Yasopp said then, before he could apologise. “I can tell what you’re thinking.” But where Shanks expected him to be disappointed, the expression that settled across his features was curiously knowing, before he added, as though it was the easiest thing in the world, “It’s okay, Cap.”

When his brow furrowed in question, Yasopp’s smile took on a wry edge. “Two years ago,” he began, gaze looking out towards the sea now. “When we went back to East Blue after the war. After we’d left Syrup and docked in Fuschia, and Makino came running down like it hadn’t been ten damn years…”

The mention of her name had something in him constricting, and he wasn’t quick enough to stop himself from flinching, but Yasopp pushed on, and Shanks was strangely glad of it, even as Yasopp said, “There was a moment I thought ‘why him?’ And I know I left my family. That was my decision, and I know it wasn’t the same as it was for you. But coming back and finding them both gone, and then seeing what greeted your return…” he trailed off.

Then with a shrug, “I’m not too proud to say it,” Yasopp declared. “I feel like crap for thinking it, but I’m not too proud to admit that I did.”

For a moment, Shanks only watched him. And he hadn’t thought about it that way — had been too caught up in his own happiness that day to see beyond it, and that their return after the war hadn’t brought the same relief to all of them.

“It’s okay,” Yasopp repeated. “To feel that way. It’s human. And it ain’t fair, what happened to them. It’s the ugliest damn injustice this world could dredge up, and you’re allowed to be angry. And jealous. Grief doesn’t always make sense, but you’re allowed your feelings. No one’s contesting that, least of all me.”

“And when you’re ready,” Yasopp continued, and Shanks glanced up to find something hard enter his eyes—the kind of look he sometimes got about him, just before he took a killing shot; an almost eerie sort of calm, and that he found echoed in the words that followed, “You’re not facing this alone. Teach is gonna pay, but it’s gonna be by all of us. They were our family, too.”

The breath that shuddered out of him at that was such a visceral thing, Shanks felt the drink spilling over the rim of his glass and his fingers, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe past the knot in his chest.

But he knew — remembered, all the little things that spoke of the truth in Yasopp’s words. The turns they’d all taken with Ace, to give Makino a moment to breathe. The small efforts, like scrubbing the floors, and doing the dishes. He remembered the crib, and the surety with which Yasopp had put it together, the knowledge an old thing, but familiar, sitting in his fingers. The part of him that had never forgotten what it meant to be a father, even after so many years at sea.

“Did you always believe that they’d be there?” Shanks asked then, and saw Yasopp’s brows lift at the question. Most likely, he hadn’t expected one. “I know you talked about it, going back, but did you ever think that they might not—”

He stopped himself from voicing the question in full, finding it suddenly all too close to home; the words stuck at the bottom of his throat, refusing to budge.

But Yasopp only looked at him, understanding softening the hard lines of his face. And with a shrug, “I guess I always held out some hope,” he said. “That they’d be there when I made it back. She’d say something like ‘how was the sea?’, like I’d just been gone a week. That’s the kind of person she was.” He shook his head, his eyes suddenly far away. “Too damn good for what she got. I told her that, you know? When she wanted to marry me, I told her—”

But he stopped himself, and with a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh, “Sorry. I know you already know this story. Hell, I know I’ve probably told you all so many times you’re sick and tired of hearing about it.”

Shanks was about to correct him, when Yasopp beat him to it. “But you know,” he said, meeting his eyes. “Talking about them always helped. It kept them with me, even when — even now that she’s gone, sometimes when I talk about her, it’s like she isn’t.” He smile was rueful, and, “It’s not enough,” he said. “But a woman like her deserves to be remembered.”

Then he lifted his glass to his lips, and with his smile widening at something Shanks couldn’t see, some private memory resurfacing, for his eyes alone, he knocked it back.

Shanks stared at his own glass, and the drink still in it. And there was an offering there, as unspoken as all the others. And just a few minutes ago he might have left well enough alone, but Yasopp’s words stuck, sinking into his chest, although with a far kinder weight than the one he’d carried with him since that day he’d first opened the newspaper and everything had unravelled around him.

_A woman like her deserves to be remembered._

“Did I ever tell you the story of how I proposed?” he asked then, finding the memory without trouble — the sunlight slanting through the window touching her dark hair with green-and-gold, and her sleep-tinged grin curving against the pillow. That drowsy laugh, and _of course you’d ask like this._

“No,” Yasopp said, lifting the bottle now, and his smile stretching into a grin.

“But I’d love to hear it.”

 

—

 

“ _No_.”

“Come on,” Sabo laughed. “You’re missing the best part.”

“Sabo,” Makino said, the careful enunciation of his name making his mouth twitch with a smile. “We are _under the sea_.”

The look he gave her was far too amused, Makino thought, given the fact that just beyond the door at his back was open water. Open water _miles under the surface_.

She’d balked when he’d finally told her exactly what the concept of _ship coating_ implied, and at first she’d pointedly refused to go along with it. Because she was just getting used to travelling by sea on the sea, but going _under_ it?

But she’d known, of course, that she’d had no choice; not if she wanted into the New World. If she wanted to find Shanks, there was no other option. She would just have to go along with it, and face the challenge head on. The sea demanded, and Makino had come to learn that the hard way — and even harder was the lesson that if you didn’t push back, you’d be carried away by the currents before you had time to gather your wits.

And so she’d pushed back.

Albeit reluctantly.

They’d booked passage on a merchant vessel setting out from Sabaody. Not a big one, but the ship had looked to be in good condition and the captain had asked few questions. And she’d trusted Sabo’s judgement in that, if not in his repeated assurances that it was entirely safe. Most of the time.

But as they’d stood on deck and she’d watched the ship sinking into the water, her son tucked against her chest and her heart beating against her ribcage so fast it had hurt, there’d been a single, terrifying moment where Makino had thought she’d never see the surface again.

And it hadn’t gotten any better as they’d descended into complete darkness, and she’d held out a total of five minutes before she’d made for their cabin and promptly refused to leave it.

“It’s really not that bad,” Sabo said, giving Ace a bounce. The baby had his fingers shoved in his mouth, a gurgling hum escaping him, as though in agreement. And he seemed to be handling the transition with staggering ease, like everything else on their voyage so far.

 _Your father’s son_ , Makino thought, with just a twinge of fond exasperation. Although his ease was vastly preferable to the alternative, something the captain had voiced his concerns about when they’d asked for passage on his ship, but when Ace had showed no signs of throwing a hysterical fit, the crew had grown curiously attached. At least according to Sabo, who, unlike Makino, had ventured beyond the cabin door.

She plucked at the rough blanket thrown over the bunk, willing her heart to settle, and for the knot that had formed at the base of her ribcage to loosen so she could breathe. And if she focused hard enough she could almost convince herself that there was nothing abnormal about the situation — that beyond the bulkheads there was crisp ocean air and wide horizons, not the dark bottom of the sea.

Her nausea hadn’t relented, but this felt different than her usual seasickness, prompted by nerves, no doubt, and could you even get seasick under the sea?

“I’m stepping out for a moment,” Sabo said then, dragging her attention back. Then to Ace, “Let’s see if we can’t spot a fish or two, hey?” And with a smile tossed in her direction, he walked out, as though it hardly fazed him where they were. But then he’d made this trip before, and so the novelty—or in her case, the abject terror—had no doubt worn off.

The door slid shut behind him, leaving her alone in the cabin. And for a moment all she did was stare at it, eyes fixed on the fissures in the wood, and the brass doorknob. She knew it couldn’t hope to hold the water in, if something were to happen; if that laughably thin coating that surrounded the ship should somehow be damaged, that would be it. They’d never get to the surface in time, and _Ace_ —

She forced her breath through her nose, three deep inhales and exhales, until it no longer felt like she was about to have a panic attack. And she knew, logically, that if something were to happen there was nothing she could do, and that she might as well _try_ , because hiding inside the cabin wouldn’t make their chances of survival any better or worse.

Worrying her wedding ring around her finger, the familiar gesture an anchor to her racing thoughts, Makino wondered what Shanks would say, when she told him. He’d laugh, no doubt; his head thrown back in that startled but brightly genuine mirth that was so contagious, and—

_I can’t believe you spent the entire time inside. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience! Of course, that’s because most people don’t survive to make the trip twice, but—hey, what’s that look for?_

She felt a small smile touch her lips, and blew out a huff of breath. Even absent, leave it to Shanks to make her feel better. And there was that old flicker of cheeky stubbornness, the one he always managed to bring out whenever he looked at her, quietly marvelling and entirely honest, and told her she’d bring the world to its knees if she put her mind to it.

Chewing the inside of her cheek, Makino spared another glance at the door. And before she could make herself think twice she’d pushed off the bunk, the decision made between one breath and the next and the handle cold against her palm, the loud _clank_ of her ring on the metal bouncing into the quiet as she pushed the door open and herself through it—

She’d taken two steps beyond the door when she stopped, arrested.

Standing off towards the railing, Sabo turned at her arrival, smile lifting in surprise at the sight of her. Ace had a firm grip around the cravat at his neck, and seemed more interested in that than the dark sea beyond the thin bubble of protection that covered the ship.

“Decided to give it a try after all?” Sabo asked, but the question seemed to be coming from far away, as though she couldn’t quite focus her attention enough to take in what he was saying. But she heard from the inflection the note of worry that slipped into his voice next. “Makino?”

She drew a breath, gaze fixed on the darkness ahead. “It’s—”

It stretched out on all sides, a seemingly endless expanse, and looking at it Makino had the impression that the ship sat suspended in the middle of nothing at all — at the heart of a dark, quiet void, and the hush that lay across the deck held a unique quality of silence that was unlike anything she’d ever experienced.

Then, her breath sitting light in her chest now, and the word little more than a murmur, “Peaceful.”

He offered no vocal response to that, but she had the impression that Sabo agreed. And she might have said something more but her words seemed to fail her, slipping from her grasp when she tried to look for them.

“Someone’s getting sleepy,” Sabo said then, drawing her eyes to Ace, dozing against his shoulder. “You want me to stay out here with you?” he asked. “I could put him down for a nap and come back.”

Her answer surprised her with how quickly it came. “No,” Makino said, with a glance back at the ocean depths. “If it’s okay, I—I want to stay here for a bit.”

Sabo said nothing to that, but she felt there was understanding there, in the brief smile she caught before he turned away, shifting his grip on Ace. And she heard the door to their cabin open and shut, before she was left, standing by herself on the otherwise empty deck.

Nothing stirred in the dark beyond the bubble, but she didn’t feel the fear she’d expected, watching it now. And with her next breath the knot that had sat in her chest since Sabaody loosened, uncoiling as she let her shoulders sink, and when she exhaled she let it rush out of her in a shudder.

And after so many days of feeling like she was in over her head, both literally and figuratively, suddenly Makino felt none of it. There were no strange islands with over-crowded streets, and no one to treat her like a pawn in a game. It was just her, and the quiet. And for one staggering moment, and however ironic given her current whereabouts, she no longer felt like she was drowning.

She lost track of how long she stood there, staring into the water, but she was aware of movement behind her — the captain making his rounds, and someone talking, laughter caught under their breath. Ship’s talk, recognisable from her time spent with Shanks’ crew, and she allowed it to blend together now, caught at the edge of her hearing, a soft cacophony of familiar sounds muffled by the eerie silence of the depths.

And standing there, seemingly suspended, the water on all sides of her the same that Shanks sailed, she felt closer to home than she had since they’d last said their goodbyes on the Fuschia docks.

Sabo didn’t come back out; Makino knew he must be busy with Ace, and that he’d likely read enough into her reaction to understand that what she needed now wasn’t companionship.

And she would check up on them in a moment, she decided. In a moment she’d go back inside, to yet another hard mattress on yet another cramped bunk on yet another ship, an endless string of which now made up her days, and all of them part of a new life that she was doing her best to adjust to. She _was_ a pirate's wife, with all that entailed, and in a moment she’d remind herself of what needed to be done.

But for now she would allow herself a minute to close her eyes, and stand in the quiet.

 

—

 

It was curious, Rayleigh thought, given how much of the world he’d seen, and how much of the sea, that there was no sight or sensation that beat the sense of coming home, stepping onto the docks at Sabaody.

The wharf was a churning tumult of noise and people, and he allowed it to welcome him, stepping past a group of dock-workers scrambling to unload one of the ships having dropped anchor beside theirs, Mihawk’s ominous little vessel bobbing cheerfully in the water, and drawing more than one pair of curious eyes.

But he wasn’t given long to take in the sights as one of his companions pushed past him, impatience sitting bright in the sharp lines of her broad shoulders, and her mass of russet hair tossed for good measure as she inclined her head to address him, snapping the words off—

“Well, what are you waiting for?”

Then, and without waiting for him to respond or make a move to follow, she’d set off down the path, muttering under her breath about ‘dawdling old men’.

Stepping up beside him, a silent shadow, Mihawk cut Rayleigh a look. “Remind me,” he said, keen gaze following Dadan’s considerable shape as she carved a path through the crowd ahead. “Just why you felt it necessary to issue an invitation for her to come along?”

“I didn’t hear any complaints from you when we set out,” Rayleigh countered.

Mihawk’s expression was exceedingly dry. “She did not seem like she would be dissuaded.”

Rayleigh laughed. “No, she didn’t.”

“I still maintain that extending an invitation was unnecessary. She might have let us go in peace if you had simply let her be.”

“You’ve dealt with few mothers in your life,” Rayleigh said, an old, wry amusement slipping into his tone now, “if you believe that.”

_“What are you two loitering for?!”_

The shout drifted back towards them, startling a passer-by, and the look Mihawk offered him was carefully patient as he made to follow suit, but Rayleigh only laughed.

It had been an interesting journey from East Blue —  _interesting_ , in that it was about the furthest thing from what he’d expected when he’d stepped onto the ruined wharf of that little seaside village. Hawk-Eyes had been a curious enough discovery, but understandable given his loyalties, however reluctant his admission to having them.

But the woman who’d aimed her shotgun at them and told them in no uncertain terms that whatever their plans were, they would include her whether they liked it or not, he couldn’t have predicted. Although looking back on it now, it was the kind of intersection of fates that made him think of Roger, and that staggering certainty he’d always had, that nothing was ever a coincidence, especially if it seemed like it.

They were waiting for him up ahead, but he took his time catching up, despite Dadan’s grumbles. It had been an eventful few weeks since he’d first set out from Sabaody for the East Blue on Shanks’ behest, and he was feeling his years more often than not these days, even doing things that had once come so naturally.

For his part, Mihawk offered no vocal complaints, although his entire presence hinted at disapproval, in one form or another, if not at their unusual arrangement, then at the speed with which they were making headway. And if the situation had been a different one Rayleigh might have found some amusement in the fact, but as it was all he found was something old and fond — the part of him that remembered a crew long gone, and the young man who’d stood so silent after Roger’s execution, the old straw hat pulled low over his red hair.

_Do you think I’ll ever inspire loyalty like that, Rayleigh-san? Like Captain Roger?_

Eyes glancing off the gilded hilt of the legendary blade, and the unreadable expression sitting beneath the brim of that dark hat, Rayleigh felt his smile quirk, but kept his words to himself as he made to move past them, leading the way toward their destination.

The bar waited up ahead, the cheerfully honest sign hanging above the entrance a dearly welcome thing, and, “Shakky,” Rayleigh greeted, a familiar ease settling into his shoulders stepping across the threshold, along with an equally familiar greeting. “A drink for a weary traveller?”

He watched that curious gaze as it shifted across the two at his back, before coming to meet his, her smile curving, and intrigue written in every line of her face. “Just one?”

“Better make that a double for me,” Dadan said, stepping up to the bar, and Rayleigh watched with raised brows as something like genuine surprise chased across Shakky’s expression.

And, “Wait— _Curly Dadan_?” she asked, a sliver of a laugh tumbling out, along with the name. “Is that you?”

“Ah?” The larger woman blinked, brow furrowed with something that looked to be an expressive mixture of confusion and outright suspicion, although Shakky’s smile was alight with surprise, Rayleigh saw; a rare sight on the face of a woman so well-informed she was seldom caught off guard.

Then Dadan sucked in a breath, expression contorting with startled recognition, and her exclamation as loud as the shock on her face. “ _Shakuyaku_?”

Rayleigh shared a look with Mihawk, observing the spectacle; his own expression unreadable aside from a single, carefully arched brow.

Then he turned it back to Shakky, a smile threatening. _Intersecting fates, indeed. Eh, Roger?_ “You know each other?”

Shakky smiled; an all too familiar smile that held the promise of mischief, and that brought him back several decades with the quirk of her lip. “We’ve crossed paths.”

Dadan snorted. “That’s one way of putting it.” But without elaborating on what she meant by that, “How long’s it been?” she asked. “Forty years?”

Shakky hummed, pulling her cigarette from between her lips. “Something like that.” She tapped it against the ash tray, as though in contemplation. Then, “Forty-five, if memory serves. East Blue. That Government sanctioned smuggling ring, wasn’t it? You were after loot, and I was after…more sensitive things.”

The almost feral grin that stretched across Dadan’s lips at that made Rayleigh’s brows lift. “Oh, I remember. That’s what got Garp on your tail in the first place, wasn’t it?” Then with a grumble, “And mine.”

“Oh?" Shakky laughed. "Was that my fault?”

“Well it sure as hell wasn’t my doing.”

“I didn’t rig that explosion,” Shakky pointed out.

“No,” Dadan agreed with a snort. “But you made off with enough _sensitive things_ to wring the Government’s knickers in a collective twist. Garp almost blew a fuse.”

“This was before we met,” Shakky told Rayleigh, catching his eye, before she laughed. And to Dadan, “But that was a good run. I always regretted we didn’t team up after that.”

Dadan scoffed, but, “Yeah,” she said. “I never cared about information, though.”

“We would have thought of an arrangement,” Shakky mused, eyes twinkling with something that made Rayleigh suddenly glad such a thing had never come to pass.

“So where have you been hiding all these years?” Shakky asked then, leaning her elbows on the bar. “Did you ever get out of East Blue?”

The smile slipped off Dadan’s face at the mention, and she slid a look towards Rayleigh, before turning it back to the woman behind the bar. And when Shakky pushed a pack of cigarettes towards her, she was quick to accept it.

“Settled on Dawn Island,” she said at length, taking a long drag of her newly lit cigarette, before letting out an exhale that held more than just a lungful of smoke. “You’ve probably heard of it.”

Shakky turned her gaze to Rayleigh. And she’d been with him when Shanks had called, but he hadn’t been back since he’d left, although knowing Shakky, she’d been waiting for his return to form her opinion.

“I saw the paper,” she said, confirming his suspicions. “Is it true?”

He felt keenly Mihawk’s presence, and Dadan’s eyes, half-accusing. It hadn’t helped her impression of him when he’d told her what he’d gone to Fuschia to do — and what was worse, that he’d been too late.

“I’m not sure yet,” he said at length.

Shakky exhaled, a curl of smoke rising from the butt of her cigarette, her eyes understanding, even as she asked, “You haven’t told Red-chan?”

“No,” Rayleigh said, sparing a glance at Mihawk, who met his gaze without flinching. “Not until I can give him some kind of answer.” Then to Shakky, “Any word on that front?”

“On the Red-Hair Pirates?” she asked, shaking her head. “Nothing.”

She paused, rolling her cigarette between her fingers, and for a moment it seemed like she might say something else, but nothing followed. And he wasn’t surprised they were laying low, although he couldn’t help but wonder what their plan of action was — and Blackbeard’s. If his suspicions were correct, and Teach did indeed have Makino…

It still didn’t explain the village. And Blackbeard was notoriously unpredictable, but Rayleigh doubted he would have gone through the trouble, if all he needed was one woman and her child.

“There was one curious piece of information that found its way into my hands,” Shakky said then, and when Rayleigh inclined his head in question, she pulled the cigarette from her lips.

“Sabo the Revolutionary was spotted yesterday. On Sabaody.” She flicked it over the ash tray. “He had a woman with him. Not his usual partner, at least according to my source.”

She paused, then met his eyes, a question sitting in them that inquired for the answer that was coming together in his mind — or that was starting to come together, as he attempted to fit all the stray pieces into something that made sense. That little village. Blackbeard. And now the Revolutionary Army?

 _Nothing on this sea is ever a coincidence, Rayleigh_ , Roger had so often said, watching the sea with those keen eyes that had seen a different world than most.

_Especially when you think it is._

But before he could put words to so much as an inkling of a theory, Dadan was shoving him out of the way. And Rayleigh watched Shakky blink in surprise, but before she could open her mouth Dadan beat her to it, fingers clamped around her wrist, and the words seeming to drag from her throat, wrapped around a hard, disbelieving rasp.

“S-say that name again.”

 

—

 

“Sabo-kun? Are you there?”

When there was no answer, Koala put the receiver down, a sigh falling into the quiet, along with the sharp _click_ that settled, and with far too much finality for comfort. And the Den Den Mushi offered no apologies, only stared at her with that curious, half-vacant gaze.

She pursed her lips, considering the snail. Wherever Sabo was, it was far out of range, and she tried to ignore the pang of worry at the thought, reminding herself that it wasn’t the first time he was gone for days without reporting back.

Pulling out the vivre card tucked beneath her glove, she already knew what she’d find — the paper crisp and whole, for once. So wherever he was, he wasn’t getting into trouble. At least not yet, although for Makino’s sake, and Ace’s, Koala hoped he’d make a point of keeping it that way.

She spared a glance to the pile of paperwork on her desk, mouth pressed together in a wry frown. Even out at sea and with no base to speak of there was still paperwork to be done, and her pile had doubled when she hadn’t been looking. A silent punishment, Koala suspected, as Dragon had to know she’d been complicit in Makino’s convenient escape, although he’d given no other indication that he knew, or that he was upset.

But she didn’t really mind. If anything, it would help keep her mind off everything else. The past few weeks had seen one disaster piling onto the next, and it was difficult sometimes, keeping her spirits up.

She found herself missing odd things — the bustle of the mess hall at breakfast, and her old room. Little things that had been hers, in the home she’d made for herself. Now they were adrift, quite literally, and she didn’t know what Dragon’s plan was, if they were still going to summon the revolutionary leaders, and if so, when — or more importantly, _where_. With no headquarters and only one ship at their disposal there wasn’t much they could do. And then there were the villagers they’d rescued. And Sabo, wherever he was now.

Pushing a breath past her lips, she squared her shoulders. “One thing at a time,” she murmured, with a last glance at the Den Den Mushi. “That’s all you can do. Just one thing at—”

Something struck the hull of the ship, and with enough force to make her stagger forward, a shout lodged in her throat that slipped out with a hiss as she knocked her head against the edge of the desk, stars exploding behind her eyes, along with a burst of pain as she scrambled to catch herself.

It took her a moment to blink away the spots, and to force herself to catch up with what had just happened. She could hear shouting from outside her cabin, and footsteps hammering across the planks, but the ship didn’t lurch again, and a moment later she allowed her breath to rush out.

Touching her fingertips to her brow, she found blood soaking into her glove, and it was with a mutter and her palm pressed to the cut that she pushed to her feet, making for the door.

The main deck was in uproar, the people gathered looking like they’d been pulled straight out of bed, although given the fact that it was in the middle of the night, that wasn’t much of a surprise. But most were as confused as she was, and had no answers to give her as she pushed her way through the chaos.

“Hack?” she called, finding his towering shape through the tumult of bodies as she made towards the far side of the deck where he was standing by the railing. “What—”

But her words died, swallowed with a startled gasp. And Hack didn’t answer, mouth pressed into a firm line and brow slanted with something she couldn’t read, but that she could make a solid guess at as she caught sight of what he was looking at.

“No,” Koala breathed, eyes fixed on the dark horizon.

“What are we dealing with?”

The question rose from behind them, and she’d felt Dragon’s presence before his approach, but she couldn’t drag her eyes away from what held them captive, along with her breath, lodged in her chest.

But she knew Dragon had his answer; knew that he recognised those sails, and that three-headed jolly roger, as intimately as anyone would who’d been at Baltigo that night. But the name dragged loose of her anyway, caught in a strangled breath as she took in the sight of the massive fleet obscuring the horizon, the black sails rising against the night sky holding a terrible promise—

“Blackbeard.”

 


	8. choices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Easter Sunday to those of you who celebrate it! But even if you don't, have an extra long update! Because I don't know what self-restraint means, apparently.

The Straw-Hats’ departure was welcomed by a bright, unforgiving sun, the relentless heat gathering in the folds of his cloak, weighing it down and making his shirt cling unpleasantly to his back. But the discomfort was a small thing to bear, insignificant when it already took all his strength to keep himself standing up straight.

“Looks like this is where we part ways,” Shanks said. Luffy alone stood on deck, the rest of his crew already on the ship, getting it ready for departure. Yasopp had said his goodbyes to his son, and it was just Luffy left, but maybe it was better this way, Shanks thought. Fewer eyes watching, and a little more room to breathe. “At least for now.”

It was about as vague as you got, at least insofar as promises went, but Luffy didn’t ask for more. Although Shanks wondered if he’d actually thought he would.

“I’ll help,” Luffy said instead. “If you want me to.”

He almost felt like smiling, but the urge sat just a little too far beyond reach. “Proposing an alliance?”

Luffy didn’t hesitate. “Yeah.” Then, arms crossed over his chest, “But an equal one. I’m not gonna join your crew.”

Despite himself, Shanks did smile at that; a small, brief thing, gone as quickly as it had appeared, and it left him feeling like it had taken what remained of his strength. But it was something, and by the look that flashed across Luffy’s face, it was far from insignificant. “I figured you wouldn’t.”

Then, “I’ll let you know,” Shanks said. Glancing at Ben standing off to the side, it was to find him watching, expression drawn in stone, but his whole countenance seemed to dare Shanks to say something that invoked the morning Luffy had first showed up — to so much as mention death by name, even as an aside.

He hadn’t been thinking, that day; not about anyone but himself, anyway. And he felt the guilt now as Ben offered it, undiluted and without reservations. And it would take time, Shanks suspected, for Ben to forgive him for that.

But, “I’m in no shape to be rushing into a fight just yet,” Shanks said, although he didn’t look at Ben when he said it. And it wasn’t an apology. Not ostensibly, anyway. And it was a small concession, maybe, but it was a start.

He ignored the tightening grip of ineptitude that followed the admission, thinking of the days that crawled by while he continued to do nothing — while he _could_ do nothing. His wife and son were dead and buried, and he had a lifetime ahead of him to remember why, and all the times he could have done something to stop it from happening.

Luffy nodded, and seemed to accept the answer. But jumping onto the railing, he paused, and Shanks thought he might say something else. The sunlight slanted off the hat on his head, the dull gold of the straw glimmering, brighter than what the years had made of it. Five seas and three pirates, and more promises than could be kept in a single lifetime.

“I’ll give you the hat back,” Luffy said then, looking over his shoulder. “When you defeat him.”

He didn’t say _if_ , and Shanks didn’t know if it was because Luffy genuinely didn’t consider the option of defeat a possibility, or because speaking it somehow invited the chance of him losing.

And he might have found the promise amusing once, the tables turned as they were, and part of him lamented the fact that he couldn’t seem to bring himself to feel anything beyond the relentless ache of grief. Anger seemed to be the only other option available, and between the two, Shanks wondered what else of him was left.

But—no, there was something, looking at Luffy now. A small sliver of hope, or barely even that, but when you were begging for scraps you stopped being picky.

And it had been years since he’d had anything to prove to anyone—the last time was when the hat had been in another’s keeping—but perhaps it was fitting, Shanks thought, that the challenge should come from the current wearer. It lacked the sense of things coming full circle, but then things were rarely so perfect that they aligned that way.

Perhaps they might have, in another life. Perhaps somewhere in that future that would never be there was an eager little boy accepting the challenge, the old hat too large for his head and his hair as red as the ribbon around the brim.

He couldn’t bring himself to linger on the fact that he had no idea—that he’d left before Ace’s hair had grown enough to show which of them he’d take after. Maybe his hair had been dark, touched with green from the sun, his mother's colouring, like his eyes had been hers, and maybe that would have been better; a kinder fate than all his father’s legacy had brought him.

But there was no little boy here, red hair or otherwise. It was just Shanks, and Ben was right, he needed to accept that if he wanted to have any hopes of putting his family to rest. Defeating Teach came next, and after that—

After that he would need to be himself, or learn how to be, in a world that he no longer recognised. No one’s hero, but…a man who kept his word, at the very least. He owed Makino that much. Their son perhaps most of all.

And so, “I’ll hold you to that,” Shanks said, and didn’t know for whose sake he said it. But maybe it didn’t matter — maybe just saying it was enough, for now.

Luffy nodded; a single, wordless gesture of acceptance, asking for no more than he could give, but still unwilling to settle for less than he knew Shanks could offer.

Then, the corner of his mouth lifting, a smile that took effort, Shanks saw, Luffy adjusted the hat on his head, and leaped from the railing.

He felt Ben stepping up beside him, the smell of cigarette smoke blending with the sea breeze. “Have you decided how you want to go about this?” he asked.

Shanks watched the smaller ship against the water below, and the crew moving to get it ready, their dynamic one of ease and familiarity. Kids, most of them. And Luffy might be making a name for himself, but they were small fish, in a pond where the sun didn’t reach the bottom. There was no need to drag them further into this mess.

 _Little fish_ , the thought slipped in then, right past his defences like a hidden dagger, and it took everything Shanks had not to let his reaction show on his face.

“Not yet,” he said at length, when he’d regained his breath, and his voice sounded rough to his own ears.

If Ben noticed, he didn’t mention it. “Give it some time.”

Shanks watched the water, the waves softly kissing the hull. “Time, huh?”

He knew the old saying, about all wounds healing, although Ben was kind enough not to say it out loud. Or maybe _kind_ wasn’t the right word, because Shanks heard it anyway — found in it every sharp-edged gesture as Ben lit another cigarette. But like the guilt, maybe this was his due, for not telling him about what he’d first wanted to do — that he’d hoped, desperately, that the fight with Teach would kill him.

He tried to think of the days waiting ahead, the weeks and the long months. The years that would follow, if he did succeed in defeating Blackbeard. Numerous, where he’d had less than three altogether with Makino, and he’d never in his life felt younger than when faced with the prospect of a future without her.

 _Silly man,_ she’d said, and tucked her hand against his cheek. And he'd never get to touch her again; would never again be touched like that, and with the thought, the memory that followed felt almost too cruel for words.

_I’m not going anywhere._

Something wedged between his ribs, something that felt more kin to anger than grief, and his breath felt suddenly heavy in his chest, like it required conscious effort to draw it into his lungs, even with the fresh sea air and the breeze sighing against the rigging above.

He realised he’d been twisting his wedding ring around his finger, and curled his hand to a fist, the metal digging into his skin.

“You okay?” Ben asked, the question seeming to come from far off. And Shanks knew it wasn’t a general query; knew that Ben understood he was far from okay, and that he wasn’t asking about that.

But, “No,” Shanks said, because it was difficult separating this moment from all the others, and one pain from the greater weight of sorrow that refused to yield. And he didn’t elaborate, and Ben didn’t ask.

And that at least was a small mercy, although Shanks felt like he’d long since forgotten the meaning of that word.

 

—

 

“He’s not gonna make it.”

Nami looked up to find Zoro, having come to stand beside her at the helm. She hadn’t noticed him approaching, having been too preoccupied with setting their course and checking the pose, taking charge, if only to keep her hands too busy for her thoughts to catch up.

“Red-Hair,” Zoro said then, catching her questioning look, before he turned his head to look at the horizon, his good eye turned away from her. “If he goes after Blackbeard.”

Red-Hair’s ship had almost disappeared, no more than a dark blot amidst the sweeping expanse of blue in the distance, the line where sea and sky bled together yielding nothing else; not an island or cloud in sight.

“You don’t know that,” Nami said. She kept her voice down, but a glance across the deck revealed that Luffy was nowhere to be found.

Zoro turned his head back to look at her, no doubt having already picked up on that fact, and his expression told her enough about what he thought about her rebuttal, weak as it was.

“He was on par with Hawk-Eyes once,” he said then. “Might still be, for all I know. There’s a reason he’s an Emperor. But that look on his face? That’s defeat.”

She didn’t know why, but she felt like arguing. “Luffy didn’t seem to think he was lying.”

“Not saying he was,” Zoro countered, not missing a beat. “But it doesn’t have anything to do with lying,” he told her. “It’s about forgiveness.”

Nami blinked. She’d had a retort ready, but forgot what it was. “Forgiveness?” she asked. “You mean that he blames himself for what happened?”

“No,” Zoro said, the word a single, sharp cut. Not emphatic, just matter-of-fact. “That one’s a given. It’s the other one that’s the problem.”

Her expression had to reveal that she had no idea what he was talking about, because he looked at her then, and, “People who leave,” he told her, and seemed to pause a bit over the last word. “Forgiving them takes more strength than it does forgiving yourself.” Then with a shrug, “Sometimes you don’t even know you’re carrying around the blame,” he added. “It’s like an infected wound that doesn’t give you a fever. Doesn’t mean it’s not fatal. It’s just harder to catch in time to treat it.”

Nami was gaping now. “You think he blames his _wife_? That doesn’t make any sense,” she said. “It’s not like she had anything to do with it. Why would he blame her?”

“For leaving,” Zoro said, and Nami’s mouth snapped shut. “It doesn’t matter how, just that she did. It could have been a freak accident that had nothing to do with Blackbeard.” His eyes were suddenly hard, but before she could ask, “Look,” he said. “It’s grief. It doesn’t make sense, but if he doesn’t forgive her, he won’t move on. And it doesn’t matter how strong his resolve is. He won’t see the end of that fight.”

She felt a sudden, acute sense of recognition, and for a moment she was too speechless to think of a reply, thoughts dragged suddenly far away, to a tangerine orchard with the sun bearing down, and the sharp death-knell of a gun cocking that had burrowed a permanent hole in her memory.

And maybe he had a point, she conceded, thinking about the anger she’d carried for all those years. At Arlong more than anyone, but at her mother, too. And it hadn’t been the same kind of anger, but…

Touching her fingertips to the tattoo on her arm, feeling the corded scar tissue under the ink, there was no anger now, just a quiet sort of peace, although achieving it had been far from painless. But she thought of where she would be if she’d never reached that point — if Luffy hadn’t showed up, and she’d been left to carry the weight of her mother’s death for one more year, guilt and blame counted with coins, until she’d hoarded a treasure trove’s worth of both.

Dragging a breath through her nose, a strange, disbelieving smile threatening, “I don’t know where you get these things from,” Nami said.

Zoro’s brow furrowed. “What things?”

“These weird philosophical things. It’s freaky.”

“Oye—”

“I think I prefer you when you’re sleeping.”

“That surprising,” he shot back. “If I’m asleep, there’s no one for you to harp at about debt and down-payment.”

“Hmm, you’re right. I should charge more interest whenever you laze about instead of working to pay me back.”

He glared at her, and Nami stuck her tongue out. But the familiar repartee had eased the knot in her chest a bit, although it hadn’t succeeded in loosening it fully. Because he did have a point, she saw now, remembering the look on Red-Hair’s face, but finding the truth in herself more than anything.

A familiar _caw_ from above then, and she shielded her eyes to take in the messenger descending with the morning paper.

“I hope it’s good news,” she murmured.

Zoro said nothing, but by the press of his brow and the sharp downturn of his mouth, Nami had a fair idea of how poor he considered those odds to be.

 

—

 

The newspaper was pushed towards him the moment he’d taken a seat at the table in the galley, and Shanks knew something had happened without even looking at Ben.

He paused only a moment before flipping the folded paper to reveal the front page, already anticipating who the news concerned, and found that tight coil of fury wringing itself into a familiar knot as he skimmed across the page, reading the words with a well-practised detachment — the one that was necessary, for him to look at that face and not lose what he’d regained of himself.

“Looks like Blackbeard isn’t done picking a fight with the Revolutionaries,” Ben said, gaze flicking to the front page where Shanks had spread it out on the table.

Shanks didn’t answer, his own gaze fixed on the article, and the headline. Not unlike the paper from over a week ago, displaying bold letters and ill-portentous musings, and he skimmed across the paragraph listing the speculations of whether there was any connection between the two events.

“It makes me wonder,” Ben said, as though following Shanks’ line of thought. “What reason does Teach have to keep going after Dragon?”

Shanks heard what he didn’t say. “You’re wondering why he hasn’t come to me.”

Ben gave him a look. “Don’t tell me you’re not wondering the same thing.”

Shanks didn’t tell him, but then Ben already knew the answer. It had been over a week, and there’d been no word, and no sightings of the Blackbeard Pirates anywhere in their vicinity, or even near it. And he wouldn’t have put it past Teach, to strike him at his lowest. In fact, during those first few days when he’d been deliriously, mindlessly drunk, there was a part of him that had been waiting for it.

“It’s not like he’d request an audience in advance,” Ben continued, when Shanks hadn’t spoken. But there was none of his usual, dry humour to be found in the remark; instead his mien held something darker; something old and tired and afflicted. Shanks found it hard to look at.

“Then again,” Ben added, with a glance across the galley, “He might have tried calling, for all we know. The Den Den Mushi still isn’t cooperating.”

Following his gaze, Shanks found the snail, drooping in its desolate corner. And he didn’t tell Ben that he was relieved — that he didn’t think he could have endured it, if Teach had called to gloat.

And he wasn’t the only one, and Shanks suspected it might well be the reason no one had made a point of procuring a new snail, or to fix their current one.

There was a commotion on the deck outside then, voices raised in sudden alarm, and Ben lifted his head just as someone pulled the door to the galley open, the hinges protesting the abuse — and Shanks watched as Ben’s brows shot upwards, a look of unbridled surprise taking over his face at whoever had stepped through the doorway. But he wasn’t given the chance to turn his head before the person had dragged one of the chairs back and taken a seat at the table.

“The hell’s the matter with your Den Den Mushi?” Garp asked, the chair creaking under his weight as he lifted his eyes to address them.

The sudden hush that had descended on the galley was a staggering thing, and a full beat of truly impressive silence passed wherein Shanks wondered just how distracted he’d been not to have noticed him approaching.

Even Ben had nothing to say, although his eyebrows had climbed down from their earlier perch, into a familiar frown that promised a quick retribution, if the marine made any sudden movements. But if Garp noticed, he didn’t seem to care.

He looked at Shanks then; that hard gaze did a single, damning sweep, before settling on his hair. But where Shanks expected an observation, all he got was silence, but silence from a man like Garp didn’t settle, it struck, a white-knuckled assault packing a far stronger punch than any physical blow he might have punctuated his unexpected arrival.

Shanks looked at his best friend then, and, “Give us a moment, Ben?” he asked.

And he didn’t know if it was testament to Ben’s loyalty, or if he had Garp pegged well enough that he didn’t think he was there to kill him, but he rose from his seat without a word.

Shanks didn’t look up to watch the others following suit, although he heard them — the whining scrape of chairs and benches pushed back, and the shuffling of feet. But no one spoke, or offered a protest, and he felt Ben’s presence lingering until the last person had exited the galley, and the warning sitting in it, before the door closed behind him.

Then it was just the two of them, seated by the long table, the newspaper spread out between them, but even the bold letters of the headline couldn’t tempt his gaze away from the flint-hard features of the man sitting across from him.

Strange, Shanks thought. He’d be forty soon, but under that scrutiny he felt like a cabin-boy again, ears smarting from a lecture, although Rayleigh’s anger had always been a quiet thing. Nothing like Garp’s usual bluster, the current lack of which was filling up the galley as surely as if he’d been shouting at the top of his lungs.

“You just missed Luffy,” Shanks said, when a heavy lull had passed.

Bristly grey brows lifting a fraction from their deep furrow, Garp gave him a look that told Shanks his timely arrival was in no way a coincidence, and when he sighed he sounded tired. “Yeah.”

“I take it you’re not here looking for a fight.”

Garp’s next glance cut, deep and knowing. “You hoping I was?”

Shanks looked at the newspaper, still laid out on the table. “Wouldn’t be much of a fight.”

A snort. “Not in the sorry state you’re in,” Garp countered. Then with a grumble, “The hell does a guy need to do to get a drink around here? Roger was more accommodating.”

Shanks blinked. And he might have found a smile at that once, but all that came to him now was a grimace. “If I remember right, those drinks usually ended in a brawl.”

“Drink first,” Garp said. “Then we’ll see.”

Lifting to his feet, Shanks walked across the galley to retrieve a bottle and two glasses, sparing a glance at the idle Den Den Mushi as he went. It sagged against the table, a sorry sight, and he dragged his eyes away, and tried not to think about all the times he’d thought of calling her but hadn’t, the need to keep her safe having outweighed the selfish desire to hear her voice.

Of course, trying not to think about it meant there was no escaping the thought — or her voice, that laughing lilt when he’d once confessed all the times he’d gotten drunk and thought of calling, and _you know,_ Makino had said. _I wouldn’t mind if you called in the middle of the night._

He'd grinned. _You sure about that? I’m a chatty drunk._

_You’re chatty when you’re sober, honey. You even talk in your sleep. Ben said that’s why death won’t take you—because they’d regret having to put up with it in the afterlife._

He remembered laughing at that, so hard it had left him short of breath. Now the irony of it didn’t allow for mirth, only something cold and sobering.

His burden was awkward with his lone arm, but he set the bottle down on the table, and wordlessly filled the glasses. But he felt no thirst for the drink — had never loved drinking just for the sake of it, but it felt like a man’s age since he’d last had a glass in celebration. Now bottoms-up felt like a funeral rite, and he’d had enough of funerals to last him a lifetime.

Shanks saw Garp’s eyes linger on the wedding band on his finger, but he made no comment on it, only lifted his glass and tipped it back, and put it down for a refill.

He complied, but didn’t touch his own glass. This wasn’t like the drinks with Yasopp, offered for Shanks’ own sake, but he wasn’t about to deprive Garp whatever strength he needed to broach the reason for seeking him out, although Shanks already had a fair idea of what it entailed. And maybe a brawl would be easier, than talking about her.

“So,” Shanks said, when Garp had downed his third glass, including Shanks’ own. “You didn’t come here just to drink.”

Garp put the glass down with an audible _thunk_ , the full force of it muffled by the newspaper. A ring of moisture had seeped into the headline, making the ink blot.

And he looked old, Shanks thought then, taking in the furrows etched deep into his brow, between his eyes, and the way the weathered skin at his temple was pulled tight around the scar. He’d let his beard grow, and the grizzled mass made him look years older than when Shanks had seen him last, on the battlefield in Marineford.

But then, Shanks was hardly one to point fingers.

Grip tightening around the glass in his hand, Garp let it go, before reaching into the inner pocket of his jacket, and Shanks watched as he retrieved something, hesitating only a moment. Then, “Here,” Garp said, holding it out for Shanks to take.

He accepted the square sheaf of paper — not a vivre card, as he’d first thought. Instead the texture was thick, like a photograph, and his suspicions were proven correct when he turned it over in his hand.

Everything stopped.

“Dadan took it,” Garp was saying then, gruff voice seeming suddenly far away. “She was about five months at this point.”

His hand was shaking, and all he could hear was his own breathing in the heart-stopping quiet. Everything else faded beyond reach; the presence of his crew beyond the galley door and belowdecks. The gently swaying movements of the ship. Even Garp’s presence at his side ceased to faze him, for all that it was a presence that claimed space.

Five months, which meant it must have been taken right before he’d come back. It wasn't a candid photo; she was clearly posing, and with exaggeration, palms tucked under the curve of her noticeably pregnant stomach to show off the bump, her mouth pursed with a poorly-contained smile and her eyes curved at the corners, expression full of delighted cheek.

“Only one I have of ‘em both,” Garp said then, and Shanks looked up, startled. “Well,” Garp scoffed, but the sound was too soft to be properly condemning. “As close as you get to both of ‘em, anyway. Never did make it back after the birth. Was always something that came up.”

Tired gaze fixed on the photograph in his hand, Shanks expected him to reach for the bottle, but Garp did nothing.

“You’re always surprised,” he continued then, after a beat had passed, “just how few memories you have to hold on to.” And it wasn’t clear if he was speaking to Shanks now or to himself, but, “Hindsight’s a bastard, and it usually takes that to realise. Then it’s too damn late to do anything about it.”

He snorted then, the sound holding far more than the self-deprecation it was trying for. “You’d think I’d know better by now. Mah, guess it’s true what they say—that crap about old dogs and new tricks.”

And he didn’t mention his grandson, although Shanks heard the implication as easily as if Garp had shouted his name.

Shanks looked at the photograph again. He’d had one of her — an old one, tucked away in the pocket of a cloak he’d left behind, like so many other things. That extra pair of reading glasses and some of his old shirts that she’d pilfered. The kerchief he'd used to keep around the hilt of his sword. Small testaments to a heart leaving roots. Gone now, like everything else.

Garp looked at him then, still clutching the photograph. “Keep it.”

Shanks looked up, surprised, but Garp’s expression hadn’t budged from its unreadable slate, the heavy weight across his brow holding so much old grief it was hard to tell them apart from one another.

But the look in his eyes was too vulnerable for anger, and Shanks knew who that grief belonged to — remembered her soft sigh, and _he’s the closest thing I have to a father, Shanks. If I’d married a farmer he would have found something wrong with him, too._

 _What,_ Shanks had asked her, playfully dubious, _that he’s too homely? That he doesn’t fertilise his melon crop? I’m pretty sure those two put together still pale in comparison to the issues he has with me._

 _I think you give yourself too much credit,_ Makino had said.

_Yeah, and it's probably on Garp's list, too. Right between ‘terrible influence’ and ‘could at least dress like a pirate if he insists on being one’, below which you’ll find the addendum ‘at least Roger didn’t wear shorts’._

“You never approved,” Shanks said then. And he didn’t know if he’d meant to phrase it as a question or a statement, and couldn’t tell which it sounded like to his own ears, or what Garp heard.

But whichever it was, “No,” Garp said, reaching for the bottle now to refill his glass. “I wanted a different life for her. She knew that.” And the look he gave Shanks held regret, but accusation, too, familiar and expected. “But she chose your sorry ass anyway.”

“I loved her,” Shanks said, and wasn’t surprised at how hard his voice sounded when he spoke the words. “I’m not apologising for that.”

“Good,” Garp said, tossing back his glass. “I would have punched your lights out if you had.”

At his furrowed brow, Garp said, “If you’d regretted it— _her_ , after everything she gave you, it would have been the last thing you ever did. And I might be old, but your whole damn crew couldn’t have saved you from that.”

Shanks had nothing to say to that — didn’t think he could have found the voice to speak with if he’d wanted to, but Garp didn’t seem to be waiting for a response, and, “Roger owned up to his choices,” he said, considering the glass in his hand. “A crook’s choices, and some of them damn stupid, but he owned up to all of ‘em.”

He lifted his eyes to Shanks. Bloodshot and tired, he looked like a man who hadn’t known sleep in days. “She was happy,” Garp said, and his voice was too rough for anger now, Shanks heard. “God only knows what she saw in you, but that’s the only thing that mattered, as far as I'm concerned.”

“And you look like shit,” he added, and Shanks was about to ask how the two correlated when Garp added, eyes turned away from him now, “It shows. That you loved her.”

It wasn’t approval. It wasn’t anything at all, just an observation, except his chest felt like it had been physically caved in, and Shanks couldn’t find anything to respond with.

But like his grandson, Garp didn’t ask for more, perhaps because he understood, and better than anyone, that words were only worth so much in situations like this. That when it came down to it, your actions were what really mattered.

“You figured out what you’re going to do?” Garp asked him then. And Ben had asked him the same only hours earlier, and he wasn’t the only one, but where he’d had nothing certain to offer then, Shanks felt a different truth now, settling with surety in the wake of his week-long indecision.

Fingers gripping the picture, he was careful not to bend it. And he saw the way her hands were pressing her skirt down, to exaggerate the curve of her belly; the shameless delight of an expectant mother, not a shred of regret in sight.

 _If I’d really wanted to settle down and marry someone else, I would have_ , she’d told him once, stubborn chin lifted and her eyes gleaming, dark and lovely. _But I didn’t. So there._

She’d always owned up to her choices. And she’d never once given him a reason to think she regretted choosing him. And he couldn’t regret that choice on her behalf — or be angry for how things had turned out, even with her promise of never going anywhere. There was only one person who deserved his anger, and it wasn’t the woman who’d given him everything, when she would have been better off giving him nothing at all.

Something eased off his heart with the thought, something he didn’t have a name for, but when he breathed next it didn’t feel like he was trying to breathe past a vice. And it was a harder heart it left in its wake, but maybe that was necessary, with what awaited him now.

Lifting his eyes from the photo with difficulty, as though letting go of the sight of her meant more than just looking away, Shanks met Garp’s gaze squarely. And there was no exhaustion or indecision in his voice when he spoke next, a resolve clad in iron, but cutting like an oath.

“Yeah.”

 

—

 

The planks were hard under her cheek, the wood scrubbed clean but too rough to offer anything resembling comfort, and the pressure against her cheekbone seemed to push beyond skin and bone, manifesting in a headache that made it difficult to keep her eyes open.

Koala focused on breathing through her nose, ignoring the throbbing pain in her brow. The cut had stopped bleeding, but a lingering ache remained — the smallest of the many others she could pick out, lying there in the dark, but she went through them all, localising each and categorising them by severity.

Some of her fingers were broken, at least two on her right hand, the third a bad sprain if she was lucky, but moving them hurt so much it took all her strength just to keep them still. The same was the case for one of her ribs, the jolt of pain when she drew breath like a knife’s edge. But it was manageable. Broken bones were better than bleeding wounds, after all.

She couldn’t pick out anyone else in the brig with her. Was she the only one who’d been caught? She couldn’t remember much of the battle, and when she tried her headache only got worse, but she remembered black sails eating up the horizon, and the ship tilting under her feet. The wind picking up, and Hack shouting something over the roaring in her ears.

A hand grabbing her wrist — she remembered that. Her fingers curled to a fist, knuckles cut and bleeding from a punch that had sought to cave in that smile. A booming laugh and _hey, I remember you. Blondie’s pretty sidekick._

And then, nothing. Just a black, sucking void, before she’d awoken to find herself on the hard floor in the belly of a ship that could be no one else’s, alone. Which meant the others had to have gotten away; Dragon would have made sure of it.

The alternative was too much to even consider, after all they’d lost, first at Baltigo, and now once again. She refused to so much as think about it — would rather feel all her broken bones ten times over than force herself to accept it, even as a possibility.

But there was one fact she couldn’t escape, creeping in through the delirious haze of fatigue and pain, and building like a scream in her throat.

Her gloves were missing, and Sabo’s vivre card was gone. And the truth of that fact was the worst of all her pains; the realisation that she could do nothing, not even call to tell him to _run_.

She felt the scream now, a choked noise lodged at the bottom of her larynx, and the tears that had gathered in her eyes—brought on by anger or pain, it was hard to tell, but she felt both keenly as she rolled onto her back, blurry gaze fixed on the low ceiling despite the blinding headache—

_Damn it…!_

 

—

 

“Well, lass—this is as far as we go.”

The thick, brawny accent cut through the chill with familiar cheer, and the captain’s words were offered with a touch to Makino’s shoulder before the man hefted himself onto the gangway, shouting for the deck-hands scrambling to shore the ship to the wharf.

She hesitated a moment before following suit, the planks slippery with ice, before a blessedly thick layer of snow softened the ground under her feet as she took her first step onto actual land in almost a week, not counting their brief respite on Fishman Island. Even with the deceptive appearance of being any other island, Makino hadn’t been able to fully shake the knowledge that they were miles under the surface.

It was safe to say she felt no pressing need to revisit any time soon.

She looked out over the island as the crew set about unloading the ship. From where she stood on the very edge of the docks, it stretched into the distance, a vast desolation of ice and snow, and with a great range of blue-grey mountains rising towards the overcast skies in the distance, the peaks obscured by a thick cover of clouds laden heavy with their cold burden.

A winter island, Sabo had called it, and even though she’d heard her share of stories from Ben about similar places, she marvelled at the change, remembering the gentle weather that had greeted them when they’d emerged into the New World. A bright yellow sun, and uncluttered skies as far as the eye could see.

Of course, that idyll had lasted for about two minutes, before the hail had hit, like lightning out of a clear blue sky. And she wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d encountered the latter either, with the voyage they’d had so far.

Ace’s weight was a warm pressure against her breast beneath her thick coat, the soft wool lining protecting him from the cold where he was tucked close to her chest. Even with the sash he was getting a little too big for her to carry with ease like this, and with her coat wrapped around him the result was an awkward, bulky affair, but she didn’t have much of a choice if she wanted to keep him warm.

He’d been fussing earlier as they’d pulled ashore, but was quiet now with the bustle of the ship’s crew moving around them, and his mother not as restless, with solid ground underfoot.

A hand on her shoulder, gripping gently to get her attention, and Makino turned to take in the captain — the curling whiskers of his moustache lifting with a smile.

“You take care of the littlun now,” he told her, his tone a different one than it had been when Sabo had first bartered for their passage aboard his ship, and he’d taken one look at Ace in Makino’s arms and declared—

_You know what manner ‘o beasts will come sniffing at a wee one’s screaming under the sea, lad?_

Now his expression was a fond one. “I don’t know what shadows you’re chasin’, but I know well enough not to ask.” He gave her a look. “But you’re a quiet one, for all that your brother’s not. You’re not one fer railing up trouble.” His snort was a too-soft sound, Makino thought, for someone of his considerable bulk. “If he’s indeed your brother I don’t know, but you stay close, either way. You’re no sea-lass by my reckon.”

Makino felt a wry smile touch her mouth, remembering how much of the voyage she’d spent emptying her stomach. “I’m tempted to call that an understatement.”

He let loose a guffaw, whiskers quirking with the sound. “Aye, maybe. Mind you, sea legs are one thing,” he told her. “You can survive without ‘em well enough, with someone to lean on.”

Then, expression shifting into something she couldn’t quite read, “But a weak heart, now,” he said. “That won’t get you far on this sea.”

But before she could respond, the corner of his mouth tugged upwards. “’Course, something tells me you don’t need to worry about that.”

At the words, Makino felt a sudden swell of gratitude in her chest, thinking of the miles of sea they’d put behind them since Sabaody. So far she’d travelled with two different crews — as glorified prisoner and passenger, and she couldn’t help but wonder what awaited them next. And the unknown seemed suddenly so vast, she felt an acute reluctance to part with this captain and his crew, but shoved it down, and with a deep breath of ice cold air, lifted her chin.

“I’ll be careful,” she said.

He must have read some of her thoughts on her face, because the smile he offered in turn was sympathetic. But if he had any thoughts to offer her uncertainty, he didn’t speak them, only nodded his head, a parting gesture. “Safe travels, lass,” he told her. “And to your brother.”

His eyes twinkled a bit at the last offer, but whatever he’d gathered about their true relation and purpose, he didn’t let it slip, and he hadn’t been inclined to let it change his course. A rarity on a sea that thrived with bounty hunters, maybe, but if there was one thing she’d learned since entering the Grand Line it was that, all of Shanks’ tall tales notwithstanding, there were normal people here as well any other. People who did honest work for a living; merchants and sailors and barkeeps like her, who had no interest in the power struggles of pirates and marines and revolutionaries.

She watched him as he moved down the wharf, calling for his first mate, the easy grace of a captain with a trusted crew at his back sitting in every gesture as he manoeuvred through the people going about their business, deck-hands and passengers and dock workers. And like so many other things, it made her think of Shanks, and her crew. Ben and Yasopp. Lucky. Doc. The cabin-boys who’d started bringing her books behind their captain’s back.

She wondered where they were now, and what they were doing. There’d been no word, although they had been rather out of the loop since leaving Sabaody. But maybe they could find something in this place, some clue as to how to proceed from here, because with every new day the pressing weight on her chest seemed to grow heavier; the sinking knowledge that she was running out of time.

It had been two weeks since she’d left Fuschia behind, a smouldering wreckage in a night with no end. Two weeks where she’d been as good as dead in the eyes of the world, most of which probably couldn’t have cared less.

But the one who did care, and more than anyone — the one who’d lived each day with that loss, as she’d tried her best to catch up…

Ace made a small, contented noise, and Makino looked down to find him staring up at her. She touched a fingertip against his chin, her hand raw and pink from the cold, but his skin was warm, and she smiled at the bubble of drool as he smacked his lips at her.

“Hey, little fish,” she said, tucking her palm against his small cheek, voice quavering a bit over the familiar endearment; his father’s creation and preference, and it sounded strange on her own tongue, but there was a stubborn part of her that felt like speaking it now. “You’re being very cute this morning.”

Snow had begun to drift down in thick, gauzy flakes, and Makino raised her eyes to the sky, and not for the first time, tried to wrap her mind around just how far she’d come from East Blue. It felt more than just miles away —  _worlds_  away seemed a better fit, taking in the oddly shaped mountains in the distance and the town crawling from the bustling port, disappearing into a cover of white. Another storybook setting, although this was far from a storybook tale.

“We’ll get through this, won’t we?” she asked the cold, but wasn’t surprised when there was no answer. Instead, a pleased gurgle met her question, and she looked down to find Ace eating his fingers, and reached up to tuck her coat closer around him. But despite the cold he didn’t seem any worse for wear, even after two weeks at sea. Makino wished she could say the same for herself.

She raised her head, intending to locate Sabo, and found him with his back turned, shoulders hunched and a newspaper held out in front of him. There was visible tension in every taut line of his posture, and she felt something in her constrict at the sight, mind already racing to consider all the possible reasons for him to react like that.

She didn’t reach for Shanks’ vivre card, tucked away in her pocket. She would have felt it, if it had anything to do with him, but watching Sabo now, there was no comfort to be derived from the knowledge.

He looked up as she approached, his expression wrought and touched at the edges with a hard fury she couldn’t quite reconcile with his usual behaviour, but before she could ask he held the paper out towards her, the movement brittle, almost automatic.

Two words into the headline, Makino’s stomach plummeted.

“You know that thing’s a good few days old,” one of the deck-hands said, passing them by with a heavy crate hoisted up between his arms. His voice held a note of strain as he added, “Hard to get news during the crossing. Doesn’t look good for the Revolutionary Army, though. Dunno what the hell they did to piss off Blackbeard, but whatever it was, here’s hoping they keep it between themselves. We don’t need another war.”

The newspaper was crumbling between her fingers, the moisture from the melting snowflakes making the paper sag with the added weight, but Makino had given up reading through the whole article. She’d gotten the gist.

“Sabo,” she said quietly, making sure to keep her voice down. “It doesn’t say anything about the outcome. They might still be—”

She didn’t finish, finding herself suddenly unwilling to speak the words. And it did little to placate him. If anything, it had the opposite effect, but it snapped him out of his daze.

“I need to call Koala,” he said, seeming to come back to himself, and realise where they were. “I need to—”

“We’ll find a Den Den Mushi,” Makino told him, reaching out to grasp his arm. Ace made a noise of protest at the movement, and the sound drew Sabo’s attention back from wherever it had gone; back to Dragon’s ship, no doubt, and the fate of its crew.

“Wait,” Makino said then, a sudden burst of hope making her voice lift with the word. “Don’t you have Koala-san’s vivre card?”

Sabo winced. “Usually, yeah, but I forgot it on the ship when we left.”

Her heart sank, the spark of hope extinguished as quickly as it had appeared. And she thought of the surety offered by the whole and unblemished piece of paper in her own keeping — the one foothold of certainty she had, when everything else in her life seemed poised on a blade’s edge.

“Sabo,” she asked him then, ducking her head to meet his gaze where he’d fixed it on the newspaper still in her hands. Around them, the busy rhythm of the wharf hadn’t so much as skipped a beat, and people moved around them where they stood, like a rock in a churning river, the water shifting to accommodate it without question. No one paid them any mind, too busy with their own lives and their own affairs to pay any heed to theirs. “Why would Blackbeard attack Dragon now? What does he get out of it?”

Sabo shook his head, no verbal answer offered, but Makino thought he might already have been considering the question, before he said, voice hard, “It was personal at first, but now I’m not so sure. Blackbeard doesn’t care about the revolution. He wants supremacy, but with our current resources we’re not an immediate threat. The World Government is his enemy, and the other Emp—”

He stopped before he could finish, and he looked at her then, the deep furrow between his brows holding thoughts she couldn’t hope to read.

“What?” Makino asked, having the sudden premonition that she wouldn’t like what was about to come out of his mouth.

Sabo seemed to consider her where she stood, but where she’d expected an answer, all he did was shake his head. “Nothing. I’m just trying to figure out what to do about this.”

There was part of her that wanted to push — to say that she didn’t believe him, and make him tell her, but the look on his face made her reel back the words before she could speak them. Ever since leaving Dragon’s ship he’d maintained a cheerful attitude — for her sake, Makino knew; an anchor to all her drifting insecurities, not knowing where Shanks was, or what might greet her when she found him. If she reached him in time, that was.

Perhaps it was her turn now, to offer the same.

Steeling herself, she dragged her thoughts away from the vast winter island looming ahead — away from the newspaper and the sea beyond the port, and all the things in between. And, “Come on,” Makino said, something taking hold of her, a determination akin to the one she often felt when she thought of Ace, and the lengths she’d go to keep him safe.

And he might not be the boy he’d been once, who’d needed his shirts mended and his knees patched, but then she was hardly the girl she’d been, either, who’d never stepped beyond the docks of her own village, and who’d had nothing more to offer than band-aids and kind words.

Giving a tug at his arm, Makino turned her gaze from the milling wharf to the curling smoke rising from the chimneys of the port-town.

“Before we do anything, let’s get out of the cold.”

 

—

 

It didn’t take them long to locate an inn with available rooms, having many to choose from in the sizeable town sprawling along the south side of the island. The port was bigger than the first she’d ever set foot on, but smaller than Sabaody — although, Makino lamented, this wasn’t an archipelago, and the town was still a _town_ , not a hamlet.

It was easy to feel overwhelmed as they passed along a winding street of houses, built of sturdy red wood and stone to withstand the weight of the snow, and tucked close together, as though huddling for warmth. Smoke rose from large brick chimneys into the heavily overcast sky, seeming to reach up as the sky reached down to meet it, and there were people in the streets, going about their lives without a mind for the weather, when Makino had been left out of breath just struggling through the knee-deep snow to the inn.

Now, seated in a chair by the fire, she watched the people passing by outside, the flames licking at the hearth doing their job in leeching the cold from her bones, although the warmth gave her little peace of mind, and the untouched cup of tea on the table beside her had gone stale some time ago.

Ace was in the care of the innkeeper’s daughter, busy on her hands and knees as the baby crawled across the thick carpet. The woolly hat sat askew on his head, some of his hair escaping, the bright red tufts a startling truth, although watching him now, Makino felt too tired to care about that tiny detail. Wholly insignificant in the grand scheme of things, surely.

He looked up then, partially gummy smile widening at the sight of her, and she felt her heart settle a bit, despite the tight knot that had made a permanent place for itself at the bottom of her ribcage.

“Look at him go,” the girl laughed, as Ace made for Makino. She was a sweet thing — just shy of sixteen, and running the business with her mother. Not much different than Makino had been once, although the innkeeper herself was a different sort of mother than the one she’d had. A woman with a gentle disposition, and a world of patience for strangers showing up on her doorstep. Emiko had possessed neither, and hadn't suffered polite customers any more than she'd suffered fools, but the thought only made Makino smile now, watching her son.

“He’ll be up and walking soon at this rate,” the girl said, smile widening as Ace made a reaching gesture, to bury his fingers in the fabric of Makino’s skirt.

“A little early yet,” Makino said, lifting him up to give his cheek a sloppy kiss, and finding another smile in the spluttering laugh it prompted. And with his cheeks lifting with delight like that, she saw clearly the features that were Shanks’, the resemblance growing more prominent with every week. And with it, the ache that had taken root in her heart.

“But another month, and maybe,” she murmured, holding him to her chest as she ran her palm over his hair, tucking some of it back into the confines of the hat. A contented hum greeted her soft touches, before a small hand found her braid, a giggle bubbling out of him at the distraction, and she indulged him despite the sharp tug at her hair, finding herself suddenly loath to deny him the small amusement.

Of course, as was the way with babies, his attention was an ever-fleeting thing, and when he kicked his legs Makino put him back down, and watched as he crawled back across the carpet, towards the ever-tempting fringes lining the sides. And his world may have grown bigger, but his cares didn’t seem to have changed. His immediate concerns were small, innocent things — bright colours and eye-catching shapes. Thick snowflakes and fringes on carpets.

 _I’m so sorry you’re missing this,_ she thought, watching those chubby fingers burying themselves in the rug, a small coo of delight rising in response. And she could imagine him so easily, on his knees beside their son, equally delighted but for entirely different reasons — like the way Ace would sometimes pull himself forward, shuffling instead of crawling, or his tentative attempts at lifting himself up. A parent's small joys, innocent but never insignificant.

She wished she had a camera at hand. She’d taken so many pictures to show Shanks when he returned, but like everything else from her old life, they were nothing but ashes now.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and then Sabo was there, the pensive expression that had settled on his face after he’d read the paper having only burrowed deeper, and Makino knew what he would say even before she asked, “Anything?”

He shook his head. “I can’t reach her.” His mouth pressed together, and stepping closer to where she sat, he lowered his voice. “I can’t reach Dragon-san, either. Or Hack.”

Makino felt her stomach bottoming out. “You don’t think—”

Ace laughed, the sound claiming their attentions momentarily, and cutting her words in half. And at Sabo’s look, Makino kept from speaking the rest, knowing he’d likely already considered all the worst scenarios, and from every possible angle.

“They might be laying low,” she said then, making sure to keep her voice down. “What did you do, the last time this happened?”

Sabo seemed to consider the words, but the heavy weight across his brow eased a bit, Makino was relieved to see. “Dragon-san would make sure they got away,” he said then. “He wouldn’t risk a prolonged confrontation. Not out at sea with civilians on board.”

At the mention, her heart seized. And she hadn’t forgotten, but with everything else it had slipped to the back of her mind, the fact that they’d had everyone from Fuschia on board with them — that she’d left them all without a backwards glance, and no explanation offered.

“I’m going out for a bit,” Sabo said then, the words pulling Makino back. “I’m going to ask around. Usually, if you find the right people, you’ll get the right answers. And I’m good at finding the right people.” He winced. “Well. Most of the time. Koala is better at it.” He gave her a smile, although it was a hard thing of little humour. “Sit tight for a little while, yeah? I won’t be long.”

He made to stride towards the door, and she’d leaped from her seat before she could think twice about it. “Wait!”

He was halfway to the door when he paused, and Makino forged on. “I’ll come with you,” she said. “I need to stretch my legs a bit, anyway.”

Sabo’s expression was dubious. “I’m not sure, Ma-chan—the kind of people I’m looking for aren’t exactly holed up in places like this.” He gave a nod to the common room, with its comfy armchairs and cracking fireplace.

She had half a mind to tell him that after reading the paper that morning, the unassuming cheerfulness of the whole damn inn made her want to scream herself hoarse, but shoved down her rising anxiety.

“Then I can do something else while you do—that,” she said instead. “I just can’t sit cooped up inside all day. Not after this past week. And not after—”

She stopped herself, mindful of the girl, but Sabo’s expression had softened into one of understanding, even as she saw that he was contemplating whether letting her come along would be in their best interest. Although it wasn’t like anyone would recognise Makino, and here of all places.

“What about Ace?” he asked then, voice at a normal level now — an uncle concerned about the cold, not about the darker things that might lurk in this town’s snow-clogged gutters and back-alleys. “And are you sure you’ll be okay on your own? This place is bigger than it looks.”

“I can watch him,” the girl said, drawing their gazes. Ace was tugging on the fringes on the rug, and she was trying to keep him from putting them in his mouth. “If you want to step out for a bit. There’s a market just down the street—it’s worth checking out. There’s a stall where they make the best dumplings this side of the Red Line.”

Makino hesitated. Something—some deep-seated instinct—recoiled against the idea of leaving her son with a stranger, no matter how pleasant, and her gut reaction was to vehemently deny the offer.

But there was a part of her—the one that hadn’t known a moment to herself in days, not since the sliver of peace she’d stolen in the dark under the sea—that yearned for a few minutes to walk by herself, even in a strange town where she didn’t know one street from the next. And watching the girl now, seeming entirely at ease with handling the baby’s grabbing fingers, she was sorely tempted to accept. She wouldn’t be gone long, anyway, or go very far. If the market was just down the street, it might be less than an hour.

But, “Are you sure?” Makino asked. “I haven’t really left him alone before.” Although on Dragon’s ship, Sabo had babysat him alone without trouble. Her son was a trusting child.

The girl’s smile brightened. “Oh, I don’t mind. He’s so sweet! And I’m sure it’ll be okay—I’ll put him down for a nap if he gets sleepy. And my mother is here if I need help.”

Makino looked at Sabo, but his thoughts seemed to be elsewhere. Not that she blamed him. And she didn’t want to add more burdens to his shoulders than were already there by forcing him to look after her.

But on that thought, something else flared up within her, an almost rebellious urge that she hadn’t felt since she was a teenager.

Why was she always asking for permission? She was thirty-two years old. _She_ wasn’t the child in need of a babysitter.

Moving past him, the sudden movement startled him out of his thoughts, but she grabbed her coat off the hanger, and before he could open his mouth to protest, “I’m going with you,” Makino said, tone brooking no argument. And pulling on her coat, she made for the girl, who had Ace in her lap now.

“He fusses when he gets tired,” Makino said, rubbing a thumb across Ace’s soft cheek, a receiving a soft hum in response, “but if you sing to him you shouldn't have a problem.”

There was a question on the tip of her tongue, to ask if she knew _Bink’s Sake_ , but she curbed it, and pushed away the thought that clung to it, of the crew of pirates who’d spent the first weeks of his life soothing every cry with the off-tune melody Makino could sing in her sleep. “Any song will do, but he likes sea shanties. I usually just hum the lewd ones.”

Lifting to her feet, Makino looked at Sabo, who was gaping a bit. “You can do whatever you need to do, and I’ll walk around the market. I’ll even get you one of those dumplings. Sound good? Okay, then it’s settled.”

And before she could change her mind, she laced up her boots, tucked her scarf around her neck and strode out the door.

The cold hit her like a slap, the sharp kiss of it nipping at her cheeks, but it was a desperately welcome thing, and allowed her to swallow the tears that had begun to press at her eyes, along with the lump in her throat.

A full beat passed before she heard Sabo following, but he offered no protest as he closed the door to the inn behind him, and she heard the crunch of his boots across the thick cover of snow on the ground. It was so cold her lashes were sticking together, and she tucked her hands into her pockets, rubbing her fingertips against her palms to keep them warm.

When she turned to look at him, there was a wry smile on his face, despite the worry that still sat, etched between his brows. “I’m sorry,” he said. “For calling all the shots without asking.”

Lips pursing with a smile of her own, “Apology accepted,” Makino said. Her look softened a bit, and, “I’ll be fine, Sabo. I just need a few minutes to myself.” She looked down the street. “And I can find my way back, if you need to take longer.”

“You sure?” he asked, a hint of dryness in his tone now. “This completely straight street looks like it could be trouble.”

She gave him a shove as she walked past. “You’re not funny.”

His chuckle fell, but it lacked the cheek she’d grown used to over the course of their voyage so far. And she wanted to offer some sort of assurance — to tell him that Dragon must have had something up his sleeve, but the words felt awkward in her mouth, and so she kept them to herself. She’d seen what Blackbeard was capable of, and even if the news had offered no further clues as to the fate of the Revolutionaries, she had nothing more to offer than speculations of her own.

But, “I’ve been thinking,” Makino said then, when Sabo had caught up with her. She could spot what had to be the market further down the street — an assembly of wooden stalls in what looked to be the centre of a square. She tried not to glance back over her shoulder, towards the inn they’d put behind them, where Ace was. It took effort not to turn on her heel and walk back. “What if I tried to get hold of Garp?”

Sabo paused to look at her, and Makino stopped walking. She saw that he hadn’t bothered with a scarf, and hardly seemed to notice the cold. And now that she thought about it, he hadn’t seemed fazed by it at all since the ship had first pulled into the island’s magnetic field.

Somehow, it was suddenly difficult to look past it. And she couldn’t simply chalk it up to him being too preoccupied to notice, although she couldn’t for the life of her understand how he could walk around without even shivering, when her wool-lined coat couldn’t fully keep out the cold.

“Garp?” he asked then, drawing her attention back from where it had wandered off.

Makino shrugged. “I don’t know if it would help. But maybe he’d know something.” Dragon was his son, after all. And the Government always seemed to know more than what made it into the press.

She didn’t tell him that she’d welcome just speaking to someone else; someone who had to think she was dead, unless Garp somehow knew differently. She hoped he did, but hope hadn’t done much for her so far, and so she was reluctant to hinge her faith on it.

Sabo seemed to consider the suggestion, mouth pressed to a firm line, and Makino had the sudden thought to ask if he was worried about talking to Garp. As far as she knew, there weren’t many who knew Sabo was alive. It was her, and Luffy, but Garp would want to know, Makino was sure of that.

Dadan would, too, but she tucked that thought away for another time, when his mind didn’t weigh quite so heavily with other concerns.

Sabo tensed up then, the reaction like he’d received a physical shock, and Makino started. “What’s wrong?”

He was looking down the street towards the square, and following the line of his gaze, her eyes found what had made him react so violently, and her heart lurched in her chest just as Sabo bit off an oath.

“ _Shit—_ _!”_

She felt him moving, stepping in front of her just as the towering shape emerging from the bottom of the street came to a stop before them. Like Sabo, he seemed entirely unmindful of the cold, but it was with an almost exaggerated carelessness, and that was only amplified by the satisfied expression that was drawn across his face — the same face she’d seen in so many newspapers, and the one she saw when she closed her eyes, grin lit by the lights of Fuschia burning.

“Well, nee-chan,” Blackbeard said, that same grin stretching now, a flash of teeth and a dark, wicked delight as his gaze came to land on Makino.

“You’ve been a pain in the ass to track down.”

 


	9. black

Dread seized her, heart and breath and all her thoughts, until every muscle in her body felt like it had been strung to snapping, and even the cold ceased to faze her.

Blackbeard hadn’t taken a step closer, seeming entirely at ease with observing them, his whole posture reeking of that lazy, swaggering confidence that came from the unshakeable certainty of having the upper hand.

And he did. Even on his own, no crew in sight, there was no doubt about that. There was nowhere for them to run, in a town they didn’t know, no ship to call their own and no one to back them up. And between them, Sabo was the only fighter, although he had no weapons on him as far as Makino could see.

She knew he was trained in combat — knew he was the Chief of Staff of Dragon’s organisation for a reason, but it was difficult connecting that knowledge to the little boy she’d known, and the young man who’d been all endless patience and gentle hands with her son.

And— _Ace_ , she thought then, the realisation both like a lifeline and a hangman’s noose, and it took all her willpower not to look back towards the inn they’d left, just moments ago.

As though having sensed where her thoughts had gone, “Something’s missing from this picture,” Blackbeard said, glancing between them, before his gaze settled back on Makino. “Where’s junior?”

She knew her expression had to reveal all her thoughts — all her _fears_ , but if she just kept from looking back, there was no way he’d know. Makino thought it was the only thing keeping her standing, the sudden certainty of that knowledge.

Sabo hadn’t budged, but she could tell from the tense cut of his shoulders that he was considering their options — or what was more likely, their lack of options. He’d put himself in front of her, his whole attention on Blackbeard now, who watched them back with that unflappable calm, as though he had all the time in the world.

Around them, people were giving them a wide berth, murmurs of unease slipping under the hard quiet, some of them startled, no doubt recognising just what kind of pirate had stepped into their midst.

For his part, Blackbeard seemed as unconcerned about the attention he was attracting as he was about the cold.

“How did you find me?” Sabo asked then, and Makino dragged her eyes from Blackbeard to look at him, startled. And it was the same question that had been on her mind, but now that Sabo had voiced it, she found another in its stead, pushing past her panic and her confusion.

Blackbeard had said _she’d_ been a pain to track down, although that didn’t make any sense. He’d _obliterated_ Fuschia. For all he knew, she should be dead. Unless—

Blackbeard held something up, a folded sheet of paper gripped between his thumb and forefinger, looking pathetically small in comparison. From a glance, it was twin to the one tucked against Makino’s heart. Except there was one marked difference between them.

“Your sidekick,” he told Sabo, almost cheerfully. “The cutie with the tiny fists. Fought like hell to hold onto this.” He closed his fingers around it, making a show of crushing it, a smile curling along his mouth at the implication.

Her heart sank, and Makino watched Sabo go utterly still. “You—” He sounded suddenly breathless. Then, his voice a harder thing now, bordering on a shout, _“What did you do to her?”_

Blackbeard grinned. “I’ll trade you,” he said. “The answer, for Red-Hair’s wife.” He looked at Makino. “Sounds like a fair deal to me. Eh, nee-chan?”

Sabo’s breathing had changed, and Makino had the sudden sense that the air felt warmer. It wasn’t just that the cold didn’t faze her anymore; she really couldn’t feel it.

“You need to run,” Sabo told her then, voice pitched low. “Now.”

Her heart stuttered in her chest, realising what he was saying — and implying. “Sabo—”

But before the protest was fully off her tongue, Sabo was off at a run, making for Blackbeard, and a shout lodged in her throat as fire erupted from his entire body, wrapping him in it as the flames ate up the air, almost greedily, before it shoved outwards; a barrage that consumed the snow and the ice, and the whole street.

 _Devil fruit_ , Makino realised, the thought almost detached as she watched the fire, eyes wide and heat kissing her cheeks. She heard people screaming as they bolted past, trying to get out of the way, but she was too shocked to manage so much as a sound, or even move her legs, which felt like they’d been rooted to the ground.

“I’ll deal with him!” Sabo was shouting then, dragging her out of her shock, as he sent another torrent of fire surging forward, a physical wall cutting Blackbeard off. From beyond, Makino heard him laughing, as though pleased by the demonstration, and the sound was more terrible than the screaming around them.

Sabo threw her a look over his shoulder, something suddenly wrought flashing across his features, turning them harder than she’d seen them. “I can’t go all out with you here, Makino. _Go_!”

She hesitated for a single second, eyes on the wall of fire climbing into the grey skies, obscuring everything ahead of them. Her thoughts went to the inn at their backs, and _Ace—_

It was what pushed her into moving — what dragged her bodily back into awareness, and before she’d had time to think she was running.

Sabo’s flames had melted the snow, and the ground underfoot was wet and slippery under her soles as she set off at a dead sprint, in the opposite direction of the inn.

She didn’t stop, or look back. She barely saw where she was going as she cut down a cramped side-street, then another, feet slipping in the mud and her heart in her throat. There were others running alongside her, and maybe she could lose herself in the crowd. If Sabo could hold Blackbeard off, she could find somewhere to hide — could wait out the battle, and then go back for Ace when it was safe.

But the thought wouldn’t leave her, of the opponent Sabo was fighting, and it almost made her turn back, thinking of Shanks’ scars, and Ace, whose attempt to defeat him had seen him handed over to the Government. She almost stopped, arrested by that same dread she’d felt earlier, realising just what kind of battle she’d left him to deal with alone.

But then what could she do? She had no weapons, no skills or powers at her disposal, and she’d only jeopardise his chance of winning, or at the very least of getting away, if she went back.

No. Sabo’s effort would go to waste if she let herself get caught, and with her whole focus fixed on that knowledge—that she had to keep running, as far as she could—Makino pushed herself forward, until it felt like she might throw up.

And she anchored her heart in the small certainty, that if she did get caught, Blackbeard still wouldn’t know where Ace was. She’d rather die than tell him.

It was the single most sobering thought she’d ever had, but there was nothing but conviction as she accepted it. Not even fear found a way through that; the unyielding wall that wrapped like steel around her heart.

There was snow under her boots now; she was far enough away from the battle for Sabo’s flames not to have reached this part of the town, and it made it harder to run, but Makino shoved past it, snow to her ankles and tears freezing on her lashes. She tasted blood, and her chest ached from the strain, but desperation didn’t let her slow down, even to catch her breath. There had to be somewhere she could _hide_.

She rounded the corner, expecting another empty street. She didn’t expect someone to come walking in her direction, and before her mind had had time to catch up with that realisation she’d collided with them, the momentum of the impact shoving her back—

The sharp _crack_ and the blinding pain as her head hit the brick wall behind her was the last thing she knew, before the dark swallowed her up.

 

—

 

“Er—”

“Nee-chan…?”

“She’s not dead, is she? Please, _please_ tell me she’s not dead, the last thing I need is an accessory charge, my mother already gives me enough grief about my bounty as it is!”

The note of panic in his companion’s voice sparked his own, but the touch of his fingers against her neck brought it back down from where it had lurched into his throat, to rush out with a sigh. “Nah—she’s just out cold.”

“Oh, thank _god_.” Then, and with an accusatory look thrown his way, followed by a slap to his shoulder, “You should watch where you’re going next time!”

“Hey, did you see how fast she came around that corner? What am I, a psychic?”

“No, but you could work on your reflexes.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my reflexes!”

“I think the lady would disagree,” his companion said dryly, “if she was conscious.”

“Quit making this out to be my fault! She was the one running blind!”

As though on cue, the ground beneath them heaved, like from an earthquake, and it was a scramble to keep from losing their footing. Somewhere beyond the rooftops in the distance, flames rose in a great, purgatorial plume, consuming the air as it mushroomed above the town. From further down the street, there were people running — towards them, and in all other directions than the fire.

“I’m starting to think she had the right idea,” his companion said then, warily. “Shit, what the hell is going on over there?”

“I’m not sticking around to find out.” He reached down to lift her up. She was slight, despite the heavy coat wrapped around her.

Her head lolled against his shoulder when he hoisted her into his arms, and a curse slipped free, catching sight of the blood coating her hair.

When he made to move — “Wait—we're bringing her with us?”

He threw his companion a look. “Well we can’t just leave her here. She’ll either be trampled, or get caught in that mess. You said you didn’t want an accessory charge, but would you rather have her life on your conscience?”

A sigh. “Yeah, I guess you have a point. But won’t the captain mind?”

He didn’t look back, sights set on the south-side wharf, thankfully in the opposite direction of that strange plume of fire. The woman didn’t stir, out cold in his arms. He’d ask the doctor about the head-wound when they got on board.

That is, if their captain didn’t have anything to say about it first.

“Only one way to find out.”

 

—

 

There was a headache building between his brows, furrowed in a glare, the familiar harbinger of an impatience that manifested in restless fingers, tapping a too-quick tune against his elbow where he’d crossed his arms, in his silent stand-off with the end of the street waiting up ahead.

He hated dawdling, and if there was any place he didn’t want to dawdle, it was this snow-ridden dump. Not to mention, there’d been that weird earthquake earlier, and he was itching to get going — to put this cold hell far behind him, and go back to Karai Bari, where there was no ice underfoot, and no snow creeping into every available crevice of his person. His nose hurt just from breathing in the air.

He regretted having left his base in the first place, but he’d had a contract to settle, and it couldn’t have been helped. With the weapon’s market in shambles, the sea was ripe with opportunities. It was just a shame some of his associates refused to broker deals over the phone, but he wasn’t about to lose his newfound footing by sitting on his ass.

“One more minute and I’m leaving them both,” he grumbled. “Would serve them right. I told them to make it quick.”

Then, from the mouth of the alley up ahead, two shapes emerged, hurtling out of the snow, and he lamented the chance of leaving them behind, if only to prove a point. Three had told him he was a spiteful bastard, and he probably had a point.

“Captain Buggy!” came the shout, and he felt another headache settling on top of the first, watching as they neared, and realising that they weren’t carrying supplies, but something else entirely.

“What the hell is that?” he asked, taking in the unconscious woman. “I thought I told you to get _supplies_.”

The one holding her shifted his grip. She seemed to be thoroughly out cold. What the hell had they been up to? They’d been gone less than an hour! “Ah, we were, but then she came running—”

“Literally right into us,” his partner supplied, sounding breathless.

“—and hit her head. That’s why she’s out cold. It wasn’t, ah, our doing.”

“It was kind of your doing,” his companion muttered. “You weren’t watching where you were going.”

“Neither was she!”

 _“Who cares?!”_ Buggy shrieked, before clearing his throat. “What I want to know is, why the hell didn’t you just leave her?”

 _That_ earned him two affronted looks—as though he’d told them to go kick a puppy. “In the middle of the street, Captain?”

“Leave a woman, _alone_ —”

“—out cold, can’t even defend herself—”

“And she looked like she was running from someone—”

“—or away from something. Probably that explosion we heard earlier—”

“Yeah, some guy that outran us was shouting that it was Blackbeard. Do you really think it’s him?”

Buggy nearly choked on his tongue. “ _Blackbeard_?”

Ignoring their visible winces at the shrill note to the word, Buggy coughed. “I mean—Blackbeard?”

As though in answer, an explosion rocked the ground, and a swelling cloud of smoke rose into the skies somewhere on the other side of town. It looked darker than it should.

“Well, that’s my cue,” Buggy said, turning to the ship. “Come on—we’re getting off this island before we’re dragged into whatever hell is being unleashed over there. I’m not getting between an Emperor and whatever idiot was stupid enough to piss him off.”

“But Captain, what about—”

“Oh for _crying—_ just bring her along!” he snapped, voice shrill. “Or leave her here, what do I care?”

“Wh— _leave her_?”

“But what if Blackbeard destroys the whole island?”

He was tempted to say _good riddance_ , but curbed his tongue. “Then bring her on board, and we’ll drop her off at our next stop,” he said, casting a wary glance at the smoke rising from the town. He could see flames now; the skies were bleeding red with them. “On your own damn heads be it, though. She probably won’t be grateful when she wakes up.” Then, under his breath, “But if she complains, I’ll just toss her overboard.”

“What was that, Captain?”

“I said she can make herself useful on board,” he snapped, with a glance at the woman. Her eyes were closed, her lashes long and dark where they fanned her cheeks, flushed red from the cold. A long braid lay coiled over one shoulder, her hair a dark, sea-glass green, and strands were escaping it, clinging to her face and neck with something he couldn't decide was sweat or blood, the colour lost amidst her hair.

And okay, so she wasn’t a total loss, as far as looks went. Maybe some would even call her pretty. At least if you liked petite, pretty women. With pretty faces.

“Er—everything okay, Captain?”

Buggy blinked. “What?”

“I asked if everything—”

“I’m fine! Just—the hell are you standing there for? Get to the ship!”

_“Aye, Captain Buggy!”_

 

—

 

He dodged to the side, narrowly missing the cloud of darkness that sought to envelop him as he sprinted for the nearest building, breath sitting high in his throat as he made to climb it, grabbing hold of the edge of the roof to swing himself over the side and out of the way of that _pulling_ sensation, as though even gravity yielded to Blackbeard’s commands.

That dark laugh snapping at his heels, Sabo sprinted across the rooftop. He’d melted all the snow in the immediate vicinity, and with a view of the whole town, it looked like a brown stain was slowly eating up the pristine white, leaving the brick and redwood houses looking awkward and misplaced where they dotted the streets, wide and yawning now without the snow.

Any people who’d been nearby were gone, having wisely taken their chances elsewhere, and if he hadn’t been so intent on leading Blackbeard away, Sabo might have found the mind to feel sorry for the wanton destruction left in their wake.

He had no idea where Makino was, and didn’t dare let his focus slip from his opponent long enough to seek her out, but he’d managed to put distance between himself and where Ace was, steering the fight towards the northern side of the island.

He hoped Blackbeard hadn’t noticed — hoped that if he had, he’d just chalk it up to any other evasion tactic, and not question why Sabo was slowly pushing the fight northward.

But he didn’t need to have worried, because Blackbeard seemed too thrilled by the battle to question his motives.

The earth shook then, startling an oath from his lips when the roof under his feet suddenly gave out, and it was all he could do to scramble for purchase as the whole building crumbled. A large crack had shot through the ground, swallowing it up, along with half the buildings in the street, and Sabo leaped just before he was pulled down with it.

The soggy mud greeted him with less mercy than the snow would have, and he caught himself at an awkward roll, something in his knee giving, and he dragged a hiss through his teeth. But with his next breath he’d wrapped himself in fire, along with the rest of the street, until the heat had imprinted itself on the air, seeking to incinerate everything in its path — but more than anything, the man having come to a stop ahead of him, grin having only grown wider. The lining of his coat had caught fire, but he hardly seemed to notice.

A booming laugh shook the air, and, “This is great!” Blackbeard declared, arms spread wide, and Sabo was hard pressed to decide if he was referring to the fight, or the destruction around them.

Then, eyes gleaming with something that looked like anticipation, “Your brother fought with the same gusto,” he told Sabo. “One of the best fights I’ve ever had.” His grin widened further. The gold on his fingers gleamed in the firelight. “So what about it? Want to see if you can top that?”

Sabo spat, the words dragged out with a snarl, _“Shut up.”_

But Blackbeard only threw his head back, seeming delighted by his reaction, a madman’s revelry, and Sabo forced himself to stay calm, to think rationally and not lose his head. His chances of defeating Blackbeard one-on-one were slim, but if he could just distract him long enough to get away, and to get Ace and Makino…

He needed _time_  — time to come up with a plan, or a diversion, but he was too riled up to think straight, remembering the vivre card, and Blackbeard’s taunting. Koala, and all the others. And he couldn’t make sense of it, or how it all fit together; Baltigo and Fuschia, and now, when they’d come so far.

The question pushed off his tongue before he could stop it, “How did you know?” Sabo asked. His breath felt heavy in his chest, but from anger rather than exhaustion. He couldn’t allow himself to feel tired. “That they escaped? Fuschia.”

It had been bothering him since he’d read the newspaper that morning, but Sabo knew Blackbeard must have realised what they’d done — that despite their precautions, he must have tracked Dragon’s ship out of East Blue. That explained why he’d attacked them a second time, if he’d meant to finish the job.

But it didn’t explain why he was here, looking for them — for Makino, like he’d suggested.

A smile tugged at the corner of Blackbeard’s mouth, exposing all his missing teeth. Sabo wondered if Koala had managed to knock some of them out. He hoped she had. “Did they escape,” Blackbeard said then, the words musing, “or did I let them?”

Sabo paused, but didn’t extinguish the flames. His voice sounded strange when he asked, “What?”

Blackbeard grinned. “It was lucky you intercepted that message,” he said then. “And that you got them all off the island, in the nick of time. Really _lucky_.”

“You,” Sabo rasped, realisation dawning. “It was on purpose.”

A shrug, and his grin widened. “I’m not as dumb as I look,” Blackbeard said. Then, brows furrowing, “Wait. Shit—that’s not what I meant. I meant that I’m smarter than I look. _Goddamn_ it—I can play Dragon’s games too, is what I’m saying!”

Sabo shook his head, although he wasn’t sure exactly what he was refuting. It was hard keeping track of all his thoughts — to string some semblance of meaning from what Blackbeard was saying. “ _Why_?”

The smile thrown his way now looked almost patient. “Your organisation is in shambles,” he said. “Dragon likes to pretend he’s enigmatic, but he’s so predictable it’s ridiculous. I knew he’d take the whole damn village. Wasn’t even the bait I was fishing with, but he still took it.”

Sabo knew Blackbeard could tell when realisation hit him, by the way his eyes glittered. “And he couldn’t go all out—not with so many civilians on board,” he crooned. “They were sitting ducks. It was almost too easy.”

It was hard to breathe past the knot of fury lodged in his chest, but his voice was calm when he asked, “What did you do to them?”

Blackbeard’s grin didn’t lessen. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll tell you. I’m feeling generous today.”

He felt lightheaded, he was so angry. The too-hot well of power within him knotted and twisted, like a ball of molten metal expanding behind his ribcage. “What the hell is your endgame?”

A slow incline of his head, as though he was considering the question, or whether to bother telling him, and, “I have an end in mind,” Blackbeard said at length. “She’s a means to it.”

It clicked, and the name rushed out of him, “Red-Hair.” His brows furrowed. “But why not just fight him? Why go through all this trouble? For one woman?”

“Yeah,” Blackbeard said, dryly. “Given how much trouble she proved to be, I’m asking myself the same question.” He shrugged. “Mah, doesn’t matter. Might as well commit now that I’m here.”

He looked at Sabo then. “Red-Hair would put up a damn good fight, and normally I wouldn’t say no to that, but his whole crew’s gonna be a problem, and I need to think long term. Can’t gamble everything I have on one fight, I’d have nothing left for the other two, and Kaidou’s gonna be a bitch to take down, even with my whole fleet.”

Blackbeard shrugged, as though to say it couldn’t be helped. “Red-Hair went and got himself a damn stupid weakness. Not that I’m complaining—it makes things easier for me. But you’d think he’d be smarter than that.” He shot Sabo a look. “Hell, even your boss knows not to mix family with business.”

Sabo was about to speak, although to say what, he didn’t know, but Blackbeard breezed right past him. “Look,” he said. “Supremacy is a long con. You don’t win by going all out from the start. Dragon knows that. You don’t see him launching his whole force on the Government, hoping it’ll make a difference.” His grin curled now, slow and pleased. “Nah. Trick is, you pick ‘em off, one by one, and with whatever means you’ve got, until the whole structure crumbles. Big change starts out small, ain’t that how it is?”

Sabo flinched, recognising the words as his own — the ones he’d offered Makino, what felt like a lifetime ago now. The irony wasn’t a kind one.

Blackbeard’s eyes shone, as though realising he’d hit a nerve. “That’s what nee-chan was to Dragon, and what she’ll be to me.” He smiled then, an ugly, terribly _knowing_ thing, before he added, “And that’s what your brother was.” He swept his arms outwards, as though in gesture to himself. “A means, to a glorious end.”

“You won’t touch her,” Sabo said, the vow a quiet, killing thing.

Blackbeard only grinned. “You know,” he said, dragging the words out. “That’s exactly what Ace said about your little brother, before I beat him. Funny how things work out, eh?”

Fury shoved up his throat with a shout — hot and cold all at once, a hell awakened within him, and it took all his focus not to lose himself. And from the look on Blackbeard’s face, that was exactly what he expected him to do, as he raised his arms, solidified darkness gathering around his fingers, his whole body, convulsing, as though it had a life of its own; a great, black heart.

It took effort to think past the anger, the howling fury that burned and _burned,_ but he forced it down, as far as it would go, until it was all contained within him, the white-hot core of an unyielding sun.

And in the void left by the anger, he rooted his mind — anchored his thoughts in the baby who’d sat on his hip, who shared the same legacy he did, and the young woman who’d once patched his scuffed knees and told him kindly to be more careful, for no other reason than concern for his wellbeing, the way his own mother never had. And with both in mind, Sabo spread his fingers, claws sharpened to cleaving as he drew a breath—

—and launched himself into the dark.

 

—

 

Her son was crying. The sound seemed to come from far off, but attuned to a familiar routine after endless mornings woken in the same manner, her body stirred before her mind followed, seeming pulled through a thick haze.

But even suspended between sleep and wakefulness, one thing was clear, an acute knowledge manifesting through the muddled confusion, the way only a new, exhausted parent can keep score, even subconsciously.

“It’s your turn,” Makino murmured into the pillow, shifting as she sought the warm body at her back, and frowned when she couldn’t find it. “Shanks?”

Opening her eyes, it wasn’t to find her bedroom, or the familiar weight of his arm across her waist. Instead what greeted her was the ceiling of a ship’s cabin, and what felt like a headache pushing against the back of her skull.

There was a second where confusion reigned, seeming too great for her to think past, but then realisation followed, and she sat up so fast the action startled loose a hiss of pain, sucked through her teeth as her head protested the abuse, and the insistent throbbing expanded, growing until it felt like her skull was about to cave in from the pressure.

Her hand flew to the back of her head, only to find what felt like a row of stiches, although when she pulled them back there was no blood on her fingers.

But she remembered then, _running_. Blackbeard, and snow under her feet. She’d rounded the corner, and then—

Confusion gave way to realisation, then to panic, and Makino scrambled for the edge of the bunk. She had no idea where she was, but she could tell it was a ship. Maybe Sabo had found her? Had he gotten them away? It couldn’t be Blackbeard’s ship. She doubted he would have left her unsupervised, and it wasn’t the brig.

But there was nothing else that indicated where she was, or on whose ship. She was in the same clothes she’d been wearing, and barring the stitches, she was fine, but who had patched her up? And what had happened to Sabo?

Her thoughts felt scrambled, stumbling over each other, too many for her to consider at once, each pushing to the front of her mind, but— _Ace_ , she thought, and latched onto that, even as it threatened to make her knees give out. _Where was her son?_

Before she’d had time to think, she was making for the door, shaking fingers gripping the handle as she shoved it outwards, and pushed herself outside and into the open air.

The light was an assault on her eyes, and she flinched, squeezing them shut as she stumbled a step, and — planks underfoot. She was on deck, and she could smell the ocean breeze, sharp and clear and invoking, suddenly, her quiet home. And for a single second the familiarity of it all almost made her believe she was back — in East Blue, in Fuschia.

Then she opened her eyes and _saw_.

Blue. On all sides, a blue horizon that stretched forever, nothing but sea and sky for miles, and both clear and quiet. Uncluttered, no clouds or snow in sight.

The thought was slow in registering, but then it did, before another followed — that it was too warm for them to be even in the far vicinity of a winter island, which meant they were out of the magnetic field.

She felt suddenly like she might throw up, and not from seasickness this time.

“Oh,” a voice said then, a derisive-sounding thing, making her spin around. “You’re awake.”

There was a man stepping down from the quarterdeck, arms crossed over his chest, but Makino had a hard time focusing on him — to drag her attention away from that endless horizon, and what it meant; the realisation that she was on a ship somewhere, far from the island where Sabo was. _Where her son was._

Her mouth worked. “What—” Makino managed, before the words broke off with a croak. It felt like something had clamped around her windpipe.

If he found her reaction curious, the stranger didn’t let on. “Our doctor said your head took a bad blow,” he told her, as he came to a stop in front of her. Upon closer inspection, she noticed how he was dressed — the large, striped hat, and the glare sitting beneath. The bright red nose that seemed more prominent than anything else.

Something stirred at the back of her mind, looking at it, but she couldn’t seem to focus her attention enough to grasp anything coherent from the chaos of her thoughts. There were too many impressions, and she couldn’t keep up — could barely think beyond the blinding headache pressing against her skull.

One brow arched, no doubt at her expression — and her silence. “You still remember how to talk, right? Can’t have hit your head that hard, if you’re up and about,” he said. He let his hands drop to his sides.

Makino stared. There were too many things she needed to say—that she needed to _ask_ —but she couldn’t seem to find her voice.

The man sighed, “You’re _welcome_ , by the way.” Then with a snort, “Wouldn’t kill you to say thank you, seeing as I went through the trouble of getting you off that island—”

“You have to take me back,” Makino blurted, cutting him off, and watched as his brows jumped upwards.

Then they furrowed. “What? I don’t have to do anything—I saved you! And from the goodness of my own heart, might I add.”

“You have to take me back,” she repeated, voice harder now, as she took a step closer. He eyed her warily, but she couldn’t find the mind to worry about how she came off, because panic had hold of her now, thinking about her baby somewhere on that island, where Blackbeard was. “Please,” she said, and didn’t care that her voice shook. “My son is on that island.”

“So was Blackbeard, last I checked,” the man drawled. He had to be the captain, Makino thought. At least the hat suggested he was.

He raised a brow then. “And not to sound insensitive, but given his track-record, I doubt there’s anything left of that island now.”

She thought she might have sobbed at the suggestion — or at least, the person she’d been a few weeks ago might have, but Makino wasn’t surprised when it wasn’t despair but _fury_ that gripped her now, shoving her forward, until she had his shirt gripped between her hands and she’d yanked his head down to snarl in his face, “Take. Me. _Back_.”

There was a full beat of staggering silence where he seemed too stunned to respond, eyes wide and brows having climbed towards his hairline as he stared down at her where she had his shirt in a death-grip.

But then they were bunching together, and he levelled a sneer at her, along with a single, damning word. “No.”

Makino fisted her hands in his shirt, and she had no idea what she was about to say, or worse, do; had no idea what terrible thing was about to push up her throat and out of her mouth, a scream or a spitting oath, but she was spared from finding out by a voice speaking up from behind them—

“Er—Captain Buggy?”

The query was hesitant, the voice careful, and Makino’s head snapped up at the same time as the man she’d been ready to shake into obedience, only to find what looked to be most of his crew, having gathered on the deck behind them. A full, circus-themed ensemble that would have made her pause, if she’d had a mind to think about anything but the need that had taken hold of her, to make him see reason.

But one thing registered — a drop of realisation amidst the whirlpool within her. “Wait— _Buggy?”_

His gaze shifted back to hers, suddenly alert, before a slow grin tugged at one corner of his mouth. “Oho. Heard of me, have you?”

She stared at him, and — _the nose_ , she thought then, recognition finally settling as her hands slackened on his shirt, and from her memory, Shanks’ voice—

_Oh, Buggy? Yeah, I ran into him in Marineford. Small world! But I think he’s still a little pissed at me. I’ve forgotten why, though…_

“No, I—I thought the name was familiar, but I was wrong,” Makino said then, before she could think twice, and hoped he couldn’t tell from her face that she was lying, although she knew already before she spoke that it was a long shot. But the lie had escaped without her permission, prompted by that near-instinctual sense of self-preservation that the past few weeks had honed into something sharp and ever-ready. The only weapon she had at her disposal now, and even her too-honest face would have to yield to that, Makino thought.

Because _rival_ and _friend_ might be interchangeable terms in her husband’s vocabulary, but Makino couldn’t help but wonder if the designated rivals all thought the same. Mihawk was one thing, but then she’d met him, and her certainty where his loyalties were concerned was firmer than what she grasped for now, watching another man Shanks had been quick to call friend, but who she had no idea would even answer to that designation. From the stories, she might have believed that to be the case, but she also knew that Shanks had a staggering ability to be entirely too casual about who he offended, however unintentionally.

And Buggy might not be a bad person, but if there was one thing the sea had taught her, it was that even righteous hearts could be opportunistic, if given the right incentive. Dragon had shown her that much.

Curiously, what she got for her dismissal was a pout, before his features rearranged themselves into now-familiar derision, and he righted his shoulders, as though to shrug off her answer. “Not like I care or anything.”

The words dragged her back from where her thoughts had retreated, and when Makino looked at him now it wasn’t anger she sought, but something else.

“Please,” she tried again, and watched as his gaze flitted back to hers. “Please, just—if you just drop me off, you can leave right away. You don’t have to stay even a minute. _Please_.”

He was observing her, brows furrowed in a contemplative glare. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but, “Your kid, huh?” he asked then, seeming to consider the words. And her.

“He’s not even a year old,” Makino said, and was glad her voice didn’t break. But her desperation conveyed, she knew, from the way he was looking at her. “I have to go back. He could be—” But she couldn’t even finish the sentence; couldn't even think it, let alone put it into words.

Buggy sighed. “Look, lady—”

Someone cleared their throat behind him, and his head snapped around. “ _What_?”

“We should take her back, Captain,” one of the crew said. He was wearing what looked like a magician’s ensemble, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Makino had to drag her eyes away. “Blackbeard might be gone by now.”

“So might the whole damn island!” Buggy shrieked, and Makino saw several in the crowd visibly flinch.

It also earned him more than one outraged look, and, “Captain Buggy,” someone said, sounding offended. He was in bright purple tights—and only that. “Be a little more sensitive!”

“Yeah, it’s her kid,” someone else murmured.

“Not even a year old,” another agreed. “He’s just a baby.”

“And we’re the ones who took her off the island in the first place. It wasn’t like she had a say in the matter.”

“Sheesh, Captain. Have some heart.”

“It’s just a little detour.”

“I’ll take you back, beautiful nee-san!”

Buggy looked ready to blow a fuse, but Makino saw an opportunity, and grabbed it.

“Then just get close enough, and I’ll swim to shore,” she said, putting herself between captain and crew. She caught the murmurs at her back, some concerned, and others incensed at the suggestion that they would toss a woman in the water. But she had to pitch her offer as low as she could. Let them raise it themselves — from sympathy, if nothing else. “You won’t even have to dock.”

Buggy threw her a dry look for that. “It’s a winter island. You’ll freeze to death before you’ve taken two strokes,” he told her.

She glared. And for all her attempted coercion, there was nothing but truth in her voice when she told him, “I don’t _care_.”

He looked at her again, and Makino wondered what he found on her face now, as his brows narrowed slightly. And she tried to reconcile the image of him with the one she’d derived from Shanks’ stories, and hoped there was some measure of truth to them — that Shanks’ faith wasn’t misplaced, whatever their personal grievances.

She needed it, that hope. She had nothing else left.

Then, “Fine,” Buggy sighed, throwing his hands up. “I’ll take you back. You happy now?” He muttered under his breath about damn conniving women, and something that sounded, almost petulantly, like _warlord_.

Makino just looked at him, not knowing if what she felt was relief or gratitude, finding it hard to pin down either feeling with the pain cinched so tight around her ribs, which left little room for anything but the despair that had greeted her upon waking, and hadn’t let go since.

The words were on her tongue then, to tell him who she was — to ask him if he knew where Shanks was. The need to know felt suddenly like more than she could bear, but she kept from speaking them, that wariness resurfacing; the one that had taken root, in a heart that had once been so quick to trust.

But trust wasn’t a given on this sea, and she’d spent too long being a pawn in the games of others to want to wilfully make herself one now, by letting the wrong truth slip.

And so, “Thank you,” she told him instead, holding his gaze, the two words rushing out of her with what might have been a dry sob, and she watched as Buggy turned his gaze away, fingers fidgeting at his sides. A different truth; a safer one, but no less sincere, and she knew her expression conveyed it, like all her other feelings.

“Whatever,” he grumbled, seeming curiously affected, before he cleared his throat. “Works in my favour, anyway. If it’ll get you out of my hair, I’ll consider it worth the risk.”

Then he was pushing past her, snapping to the navigator, “Change our course. We’re making a detour.”

“Aye, Captain!”

The crew dispersed, seeming pleased with the turn of events, and leaving Makino standing on deck. Some of them offered her assurances as they passed her by, but they hardly registered, or did anything to make her feel better as she watched the horizon, her arms empty — no baby to wrap them around, and to tuck against her collar; that happy hum that was her favourite, and the little hands buried in her hair. The one thing that mattered more than anything else in the world, lost to her now.

Still reeling from everything that had happened since waking up, the sudden stillness that descended was no less merciful than her previously racing thoughts, because even if she knew where she was and what had occurred, and what she needed to do now, the chilling realisation that she could do nothing with that information but wait—that she had no idea if her son was safe, or even alive—was so much worse than mindless panic.

Dragging in a gulping breath, she willed herself to be calm, even as her hands shook, none of her anger left now, but something cold and unforgiving — ineptitude, and unlike any she’d ever known, even when she’d been stuck aboard Dragon’s ship. But she’d had her son then, if nothing else. She'd had the surety of his safety to anchor her heart, to keep herself from shattering completely.

She didn't care that the tears came. Didn't care that any of them saw, or what they thought.

And she’d never in her life felt more alone than she did now, standing on the deck of yet another ship, with the naked horizon staring back, offering nothing — no islands or ships, and no answers for miles.

 

—

 

The shadows playing on the floorboards were her only companions as she polished the tumbler in her hand, eyes skimming lazily over the newspaper spread out across the bar-top. There was a moth on the ceiling lamp, the rhythmic  _tick-tick_ of its efforts to push through the glass keeping her company into the long hours. Persistent little thing.

It hadn’t been a good night for business, but then that was hardly uncommon in her bar. And these days, the business the archipelago attracted wasn’t worth having, anyway.

Shakky looked at the clock on the wall, noted the time, and the quality of the silence. She’d always loved the quiet, but the quiet was different without him, her house a little less a home, but then they’d had a long life of practice where that was concerned.

She considered the newspaper again. Nothing of note today, for all that it had been an eventful few weeks, news-wise. And she was good at plucking clues from the smallest snippets of information, stringing them together — to see webs of connections where others might see what appeared to be random coincidences.

She thought of the web she had so far. Red-chan, and Blackbeard. Sabo the Revolutionary. She wondered how it all worked together, all those minuscule connections she’d yet to make. The still-missing threads.

Part of her felt a twinge of regret that she wasn’t there to figure it out for herself — a young, foolish part, and she was quick to dismiss it. It had been years since she’d been out in the fray, and she’d long since lost the thirst for adventure she’d had when she’d been younger.

She wondered if Rayleigh hadn’t missed it, remembering the gleam in his eyes before they’d set out for the New World, a week ago. A strange trio, even by Shakky’s standards, but however different, their motivations and loyalties intersected. Another complicated web.

The Den Den Mushi idling on the edge of the counter was quiet, and she tapped her fingers against the bar-top, watching it. She didn’t expect him to call with news — he wasn’t the type to, and she wasn’t the type to wait for one. But there was part of her that was curious, still. That young, foolish part.

“I hope you’re enjoying yourself, old man,” she sighed, folding the paper as she lifted her cigarette back to her lips.

The bell jingled then, and Shakky looked up to see the door pushed inwards—

And suddenly she didn’t regret not having gone with them. Because as usual, trouble came in all sorts, and even when she didn’t seek it out, it had never had trouble finding her.

“Well,” she purred, taking in her visitor, and the people at his back, not revolutionaries by her count, and more business than she’d seen in the past week put together, although she doubted any of them were there with drinks in mind, from the expressions on their faces.

Then again, some of them looked like they could use a drink. Or three.

Intrigue sparked in earnest, Shakky leaned her elbows on the counter, a smile curved around her cigarette as the figure at the front of the group stepped across her threshold, into her parlour. Another thread in her web, fitting itself into place.

“It’s sure been a while, dragon boy.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, but Buggy's uncanny ability to always be in the wrong place at the wrong time is one of my favourite running gags in One Piece.


	10. bargain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had some extra time this week, so have another update while I'm on a roll! And on that note, thank you so much for the enthusiastic comments on the last one, guys. I love you.

She was jerked awake by the hinges of her cell shrieking, and opened her eyes just in time to see someone tossed inside; a body landing heavily on the planks in front of her, disposed of without a care, before the door slammed shut.

It took a second before realisation hit her, and then — “Sabo-kun!”

She scrambled away from the bulkhead, body protesting the sudden movement, but she shuffled across the planks until she could touch him, her good hand still yielding to her commands, while she kept the one with the broken fingers cradled to her chest.

“Enjoy the company,” Blackbeard said, grinning through the bars, making Koala glance up. He gave them a pat. “You’ll be getting more in a little bit, so sit tight.”

Then without another word, he was gone, whistling under his breath, but she didn’t have the mind to consider what he’d meant by that, attention caught and held by Sabo’s prone shape, slumped against the planks.

She gave him a shake, panic pushing off her tongue, turning his name sharp, _“Sabo-kun!”_

A groan; it came from deep in his chest, the kind that was either from bone-deep exhaustion, or something far worse. But she couldn’t find any injuries, save a shallow cut at his hairline. His clothes were filthy; it looked like he’d been rolling in the mud.

She managed to roll him over onto his back, something of an effort with only one hand at her disposal, but he’d always told her she was freakishly strong, and as though in agreement to that thought, Koala heard him hiss at the rough handling.

But she couldn’t find it in herself to be sorry, too busy feeling relief at finding him alive after an encounter with Blackbeard — although right at its heels followed a heart-sinking dread, at what that meant.

As though his thoughts had been on the same track as hers, “Why didn’t he kill me?” Sabo rasped, looking up at her, eyes half-wild as he tried to focus on her face. Koala pressed her hand to his brow, but it was hard to say if he was running a fever, with his body temperature always above the average person’s.

And she had no answer to his question. They both knew what Blackbeard did to devil fruit users, and he’d _wanted_ Sabo’s fruit. But if Sabo was still alive, it meant Blackbeard hadn’t taken it, although she couldn’t for the life of her guess why.

There were a hundred more questions she wanted to ask, but one seemed more important than anything else.

“Makino-nee?” Koala asked quietly.

Sabo shook his head. His eyes seemed to have cleared some of their earlier glaze, and he was looking at her now, gaze focused. “I don’t know,” he said. There was a note of strain in his voice she couldn’t tell if was from his injuries or from anger, but it made her heart clench. “She must have gotten away. I don’t know how, but—” The words dissolved in a groan as he tried to sit up, and Koala shoved him back down.

“Lie still!” She huffed, “ _Mou_. Always, you do this.” Her lip trembled, but she clamped her mouth shut, and ignored the tears pressing against her eyes. “Idiot.”

He coughed, and she couldn’t tell if it was meant to be a laugh, but he looked at her then, and, “I’m glad you’re okay,” he said.

Koala sniffed, and the lump in her throat didn’t let itself be ignored as easily as the tears, but she tried, anyway. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

She didn’t look at her hand; the broken fingers that had been set and wrapped, and was glad when Sabo didn’t, either. Somehow…somehow it _rankled_ , having let that creepy doctor fix it. She’d punched him, the first time, but she’d been in so much pain. She hoped he wouldn’t ask about it.

“Dragon and the others?” Sabo asked instead. It sounded like he was having trouble speaking. Likely, he found the question hard to ask.

Koala only shook her head, because speaking the words felt redundant, and she knew he’d heard them anyway, from the furious breath he pushed past his teeth _. I don’t know._

But through that overwhelming sense of helplessness that had been her only companion for the past week, she found something, watching him; something that made it a little easier to breathe.

It wasn’t just relief, but _assurance_ , easing the part of her that had grown so used to being with others, it had forgotten what it was like to be alone. The part of her that had spent a week in an empty brig, trying not to remember that she couldn’t stand being behind bars — that had spent every waking moment desperately rooting up old memories, of uncle Tai, of her family, to remind herself that there was more to the world than the pressing dark of her cell.

She wasn’t alone now. And she might only have one functioning hand, and it was likely why Blackbeard didn’t think twice about putting them in the same cell, but he couldn’t possibly have known what he’d given her when he had.

“We’ve gotten out of worse fixes than this,” she told Sabo then, and knew he caught the challenge in the words when he looked at her, expression contorting into something she couldn’t decide was dubious or amused.

“Remind me,” he said. He didn’t try to sit up again. Koala suspected he didn’t dare make the attempt.

She fiddled with the ruined cravat at his neck. “That border skirmish when you got us caught and they were two seconds away from having us both drawn and quartered.”

“Hack has really good timing,” Sabo countered. “I didn’t doubt him for a second.”

She gave him a look. “Speak for yourself. Also, Hack was so angry he threw up afterwards.”

“Okay, so maybe _that_ time was worse,” Sabo conceded.

“There was also that undercover mission where we got stuck in that water tank that was filling up. Inazuma barely got us out in time.”

“Oh—right,” Sabo said, and winced. “I’d forgotten about that one.”

“Selective memory,” Koala muttered.

“What?”

 _And hearing_. She shook her head, but her smile came, too quick to stifle. But after the week she’d had, she didn’t try to. “Nothing.”

Sabo was quiet. And he seemed to have regained some of his control, even if he felt unnaturally heavy in her arms, as though he couldn’t move his limbs.

“How are we getting out of this one?” he asked her then. “Without Hack or Inazuma? I can’t even move yet. That—that thing he does, it’s worse than sea stone. It’s like my body won’t listen.” He glanced at her hand then, his brows furrowing. “What happened to your hand?”

Koala ignored him, but caught how his frown deepened. “Well, I don’t have devil fruit powers, so he can try all he wants,” she told him. Then, chin lifted slightly, “And I don’t need two hands to throw a punch.”

“I think it’s going to take more than one punch to get us out of this,” Sabo said.

She didn’t answer. Instead she looked up at the bars to their cell, looming large. Everything about Blackbeard’s ship seemed excessive, but she wondered how sturdy the structure was, or if it was all exaggerated pomp and details, hiding a rotten core. Fitting, maybe, given its captain.

But only fools thought size equalled strength, and she’d had a long life of facing opponents who looked at her and made that same mistake.

“Maybe,” Koala said at length, gaze tracking over the bars, gauging the width, and the metal. Even if they somehow managed to break out of the brig, they’d have to time it right. It couldn’t be out at sea, at least not unless they had another ship ready to board.

The only exception was if Blackbeard came for Sabo’s fruit, but she didn’t want to think about what she’d do if he did, anger pushed to a near-trembling fury just thinking about it.

She curled her fingers into her palm where she’d rested it on his chest, to keep them still. Her sprained finger still ached, but it wasn’t broken, and she could live with that little hurt — had lived with so much worse, for so much longer. Blackbeard hadn’t even scratched the surface.

“But I’m still saving one for him when we do.”

 

—

 

They treated her well. Buggy’s crew.

Not that she’d expected anything different, given that they’d brought her with them, and for no other reason than concern for her life. And she might have derived some comfort from the fact — that at least she wasn’t a prisoner this time, however glorified. But it was yet another ship, and yet another crew, and neither of them the one she would have given anything to see again.

And it was difficult to feel anything but that cold, numbing helplessness when she couldn’t stop thinking about her baby — when she could do nothing but sit on her hands and wait as they made their way back to the island, and at such a slow crawl Makino felt like screaming every time she stepped out to look at the horizon.

Two days, they’d told her. She’d been out _two whole days_. And with the one that had passed since, that made three altogether. Three days where her son had been without her, when she’d never left his side his whole life.

She’d spent the whole night awake, sleep eluding her, and even exhaustion couldn’t seem to pull her under. Her headache had lessened some, but it was still there, seeming just out of her reach; a dull throbbing against her skull. It felt like a constant reminder of what she’d let happen.

She shouldn’t have run. She should have done something else — anything else, but run like a coward. She should have gotten Ace, and…and she would have figured something out. But anything would be better than what she had now, stuck on a strange ship with no choice but to wait, not even knowing if her son was alive.

The crew appeared curiously understanding of her plight, leaving her to her own devices, even as she did nothing but watch the horizon. And when she couldn’t bear it any longer, she’d retreated inside the galley, although it made precious little difference, the naked line in the distance seeming always behind her mind’s eye.

But they’d left her alone, and they’d been cordial; had been _nice_ , which left Makino feeling like a fraud.

She’d considered it more than once, telling Buggy about her relation to Shanks, but she didn’t know how to broach the subject. And there was still part of her that was wary about revealing too much, fearing how he might react to the news. What if he refused to take her back? Or worse, if his inclinations ran closer to Dragon’s, or even Blackbeard’s—

“Nee-chan?”

She glanced up, realising she’d let her thoughts drift, and found one of Buggy’s subordinates looking at her; one dressed as a trapeze artist. She tried not to be distracted by the fact.

“Hungry?” he asked, the corners of his mouth lifting in a careful smile. “There’s food out on deck. Captain prefers to eat outside if the weather is nice. You could join us if you want?”

Makino considered the pirate before her, and the offer, but it was a feat even mustering an appetite, or the desire for company, when she couldn’t stop thinking about Ace. And Shanks.

But she tried for a smile anyway, because it was the least she could offer their unexpected kindness. “Maybe later. Thank you, though.”

He didn’t retreat at once, and there was a moment where she wondered if the captain had given him orders to physically drag her out if she declined, when he said, “I’m sorry.”

She blinked. “For what?”

His expression turned sheepish, but it was tinged with genuine regret, Makino saw. “Ah, I was the one who brought you on board. I didn’t think you might have family there. Should probably have thought about it.” He added, as though to himself, “Or just not taken you with us. It’s not the best decision I ever made.”

Her look softened, and her hands stilled on the table. She’d been worrying her wedding ring around her finger.

“Don’t be sorry,” she told him, and watched as his brows lifted. She tucked her fingers around her hand, to keep them from shaking. “I don’t know where I would be, if you hadn’t. I might be—” _dead_ , she thought. _Or caught._ She didn’t know which alternative was worse.

And _there_ was a small comfort, if there was any at all to take away from this whole situation; the fact that she was still alive, and still free. She could still go back for her son. If she’d died, or Sabo, no one would have known about Ace. There would have been no one to go back for him — no one who even knew where he was, or whose child he was.

The realisation left her suddenly breathless, and she thought of Sabo then — wondered what had happened to him, if he’d managed to get away from Blackbeard. The alternative was too much to even consider, with her heart already weighed down with so much uncertainty and guilt. She’d have to hope he had.

“So, er,” the trapeze artist spoke up then. She had a mind to ask for his name, but before she could, “We’re just outside, if you change your mind," he told her. "Captain is always in a better mood when he eats.” He flashed her a smile. “If that’s any incentive at all.” He ducked his head, scratching the back of his neck. “And sorry, again.”

He turned to walk back out, leaving Makino at the table. She heard the door opening, letting in the sound from the deck outside, where the crew was gathered; a single second of _noise_ slipping into the quiet of the galley, and her solitude, tempting both to surrender.

Then the door slid shut, and she was alone again, the sound cut off, but it was anything but a kindness, remembering a life that hadn’t known _quiet_ in so long. Not since Shanks had come back to her. Not since her son, so quick to laugh, and who’d filled all her mornings with sound since the day he’d come screaming into the world.

Now the quiet felt oppressive — felt less like quiet and more like absence of sound. If she allowed herself to focus on it long enough, Makino thought she might scream, if only for reprieve from it.

Hands too restless to stay still, she fidgeted with her hair, touching her jaw now. She’d cut it, earlier. The ship’s doctor had shaved off some of it to stitch the wound, and the length had started to become a hassle, with how much she was moving around. She’d lamented the loss, but practicality came first, and she didn’t have it in her to mourn it for long, with everything else she’d lost.

She wondered idly if she’d ever get back a semblance of her old life, after this. If she could, after everything she’d been through — after everything Shanks had been through.

He’d loved her long hair, she thought then, with something that she didn’t know if was a sob or a laugh. And maybe it was her overwrought mind scrambling for foothold — for the levity that was _his_ , when she didn’t have him; or for small, trivial things, to better endure the burden that weighed on it, seeming heavier with every breath. She wondered how long before she couldn’t take any more.

Dragging a breath through her nose, she blinked the tears away, and shoved that thought down. She couldn’t afford to break. Not now, while she still had to find her son. She couldn’t afford to be weak. The sea wouldn’t allow her that luxury; didn’t care that she was tired, or heartsick. It cared only about will, and it was all she had left, even if she felt it wavering with every mile that didn’t yield an island in the distance.

She considered the Den Den Mushi sitting across the room, and the idea seized her, along with her breath.

And maybe it was a futile venture, when it had already failed once, but she was out of options, and in that moment Makino thought she might have done anything, however desperate or fruitless, if there was so much as a shred of possibility that it could work.

She was moving before she’d had time to think, and had grabbed the receiver with her next breath and punched in the number, something other than helplessness spurring her on now — a near-desperate conviction that left her movements brittle and hard, and she could have shaken the snail, she thought, if it would have helped.

Because she needed one thing. _One_ thing that didn’t slip through her fingers, like everything else.

And maybe she could reach him, this time. Maybe whatever had hindered the call from going through the last time she’d tried would let her make contact now. If she could just talk to him — just hear this voice, maybe she could make herself believe that everything would be okay, the way he always had of convincing her. That bright, relentless optimism that knew no equal, on any sea.

She didn’t want to think about what grief had made of it; of the man she’d married. Makino didn’t think she could make it another mile if she let herself succumb to that fear, which had hounded her for weeks.

The receiver rested in her palm, but her hands weren’t shaking now as the seconds ticked by, long and damning. And she waited, watching the snail staring back at her, thoughts somewhere between the muffled sounds of merriment from outside the galley, and that vacant stare as the Den Den Mushi tried to transfer the call. She didn’t want to hope, and yet—

 _Please_ , she thought, begging that empty void she didn’t know if answered to fate or something else, but she didn’t care which name it had — cared only that it would give her _something_ , after it had taken everything. _My stubborn fool of a man, **pick up.**_

“Pick up,” she murmured to the snail, voice breaking over the words. “Pick—”

The door opened again, and she’d put the receiver back down before she could think, the movement so startled the snail jumped, before it cut the call short, and Makino had wiped the tears from her eyes before the door had slid shut.

Buggy looked at her, then at the Den Den Mushi beside her, and Makino knew she’d been caught. If her reaction hadn’t been telling enough, her expression filled in the blanks; her eyes still burning, and her cheeks flushed.

And she thought then, that he’d ask — or worse yet, that he'd demand to know what she’d been up to, in which case she couldn’t hope to lie her way out of it.

But whatever he thought of her poorly-concealed innocence, Buggy didn’t mention it. “There’s food,” he said simply.

Makino fiddled with the sleeve of her shirt. She prayed her voice wouldn’t break again as she said, “I heard.”

Buggy’s gaze flickered to the Den Den Mushi again, but what he asked was, “You’re not hungry?”

Her hand stilled. She couldn’t tell if she was; couldn’t even remember when she last ate, but the guilt gnawing at her stomach was too great for her to feel anything else.

“Not really,” she said at length.

There was a moment where all he did was look at her, and Makino couldn’t guess what he was thinking — or what he was about to do, a confusion that bled into surprise a second later, when Buggy dragged out a chair and sat himself down, arms crossed over his chest and frown firmly in place.

A long, tense lull followed as he observed her from across the table, and Makino had no idea how to proceed.

Then, his gaze flicking up, “You cut your hair,” he said.

Her fingers twitched in her lap, but she didn’t reach out to touch it. “It’s more practical this way.”

He looked at her, before he snorted. “Looked better long.”

Her brows drew together. “Noted.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched, and she had the sudden, baffling impression that he was chagrined, before he cleared his throat, and, “Tell me about your kid,” he said.

Makino blinked, taken aback. “What?”

Buggy was still glaring at her. “Your kid,” he repeated. Then with an awkward shrug, grumbled, “If you want to talk about it.”

She realised she was gaping, and closed her mouth. He very pointedly wasn’t looking at her now. “Wait,” she said. “Are you—”

His eyes shot back to hers, narrowed with suspicion. “What?”

Makino stared at him, a frown pulling at her features now that she knew had to convey the disbelief that slipped into her voice. “Are you trying to _comfort_ me?”

She got an even fiercer glare for that, but he only straightened his shoulders, and tightened the cross of his arms. “So what if I am?”

“Just yesterday you were threatening to toss me overboard.”

“That was _one_ comment. I’m surprised you even heard it.”

“You shrieked it for the whole ship to hear.”

“ _Shrieked—_ ” He coughed, and levelled another glare at her. Makino met it.

There was another tense beat of silence where neither of them spoke, and where Buggy seemed to be trying to glare her into submission. From outside the galley sounded a muffled laugh — a loud, rousing guffaw that slipped through the cracks in the quiet, and for a second the sound was so familiar her heart jumped in her chest.

But then she was brought back, and it was a different galley, and a different crew than hers, but as her heart sank, so did her rising irritation.

Because they might not be her crew, but they didn’t deserve her hostility — even their captain, for all his easily-ignited temper and ear-splitting outbursts, and threats to throw her over the side of the ship.

“He’s nine months old,” Makino said then, and watched as Buggy blinked, the glare slipping. And the words came without thinking, along with the image; a sudden, desperately welcome thing. “He laughs easily, and smiles a lot. He likes sea shanties, and if he gets hold of your hair, he won’t let go.”

Buggy made a noncommittal noise that she couldn’t interpret, tapping his fingers against his elbow. And Makino didn’t think he’d say anything else, but then — “Do they walk when they’re that young?”

She looked at him, but he wasn’t looking at her, keeping up a convincing air of detached boredom, save the restless tapping of his fingers.

“It’s rare,” she said, after a pause. She drew a breath, and invited the thought — the way he would scoot across the floor, dragging his knees. “But he doesn’t like to sit still, so he probably will soon.” If he was even still alive, and if she found him in time to see it. What if she never did?

She felt the tears threatening again, along with that long-held scream that couldn’t bear the waiting. She felt sick from it.

Buggy was quiet, and Makino wondered if he was looking for something to say — wondered suddenly why he was making the effort at all, when, “I hate kids,” he told her, and her startled laugh broke off with a wet sob.

His smile was small, but too quick to be anything but genuine. “Sorry,” he muttered, the apology stiff, but the sincerity didn’t escape her. “I’m not good at this.”

“What,” Makino asked, voice thick. “Talking about kids?”

The look he tossed her was dry. “Comfort.”

Despite herself, she found a smile at that. “I’ve had worse.”

He raised a brow, open dubiousness yielding only a little to genuine curiosity. “Oh yeah?”

“I had a twenty-hour labour,” she told him, and didn’t know why she was sharing that detail, but the memory was a fierce comfort. “Halfway through, my husband started cracking jokes.” Her smile trembled, remembering. Ben had threatened to haul him out by his shirt. “To lighten the mood.”

Buggy snorted. “Sounds like a catch.”

“Yeah,” Makino murmured, the word soft. The metal of her wedding ring was warm from where she’d been turning it around her finger. “He is that.”

She looked at Buggy then, watching her. And she still couldn’t guess what had even inspired him to make the effort, if it was on the crew’s behest or some strange impulse of his own, but she was suddenly glad of the distraction — something that wasn’t the guilt eating her alive, and the all-consuming worry that wouldn’t let her breathe.

“Your husband back on that island?” Buggy asked then. “With your kid?”

The truth sat on her tongue, where she’d kept it all day, but, “No,” Makino said. “I’m not from—there. I was just stopping by on my way…elsewhere.”

Not a lie, but it was so vague it practically invited suspicion. And once again, she didn’t know if she wanted him to call her out on it, if only to force her to make the decision of whether to tell him about Shanks. If put on the spot, she knew she couldn’t manage a lie if her life depended on it, but maybe that was what she needed.

But Buggy didn’t, and she had a thought to wonder then, if he was as terrible at detecting lies as she was at making them, or if he knew full well there was something she wasn’t telling him, but for some reason chose to let her keep her secrets.

“So who’s got your kid, then?” he asked, and just like that, whatever distraction she’d found in talking about Ace vanished, the guilt rushing back to take its place, until it felt like there wasn’t enough room for it all within her.

“There was an inn,” she said, quietly. “I was just going step out for a few minutes.”

It hurt to think about. And what must they have thought, the innkeeper and her daughter? That they’d abandoned him? Or that they’d perished when Blackbeard had attacked? How much of that island was even left intact?

That restless panic was asserting itself again, making her feel claustrophobic, even with the considerable size of the galley. And it was followed by the reckless, near-unreasonable impulse that she really would take her chances with swimming, if the option was left to her, even though they weren’t within the magnetic field yet, and the sea thrived with things worse than sea kings.

But still, the feeling persisted; the one that had no care for her own safety, and no mind for self-preservation, and that she thought might drive her mad if she didn’t get to hold her son soon.

Makino looked at Buggy again, and—she could tell him, she thought. The truth about who she was; about Shanks, and Ace. She didn’t know what good it would do her now, but maybe he knew something. At this point, she would take anything, even just talking to someone who knew Shanks, if it would alleviate the unbearable ache in her chest even a fraction.

“Hey,” Buggy said then. He must have realised where her thoughts had gone, although Makino wasn’t surprised, given how much her face tended to reveal, even when she said nothing. “We’re not far now,” he told her. “We’ll probably—”

_“Captain!”_

The shriek reached them through the door, cutting his words short, and Makino glanced up just as it was shoved open, admitting one of the crew, face ashen and with an expression to match. “It’s—”

He couldn’t seem to finish, but Buggy was already moving, and before she could think twice, Makino was following suit, stepping out on deck, only to stop, arrested by the sight that greeted her.

“Fuck,” Buggy said, and she might have been inclined to agree, if she could have managed a response beyond her heart dropping into the pit of her stomach.

She didn’t need to know the jolly roger to recognise the ship, or to know who those black sails belonged to.

She caught the distressed murmurs from the crew, but Buggy didn’t call for a retreat, likely understanding that it was a useless venture, and Makino couldn’t move, watching as the ship made its slow approach — that same, almost lazy quality to it that she remembered from that cold day, standing in the street with Sabo. Behind it idled two more ships of similar design, both bearing the same jolly roger, and the same black sails. They were smaller in size, although they were all bigger than any ship Makino had ever seen.

It had to be the main ship that had hailed them, and the bigger vessel loomed high above Buggy’s as it drew close, the shadow thrown across the deck blocking out the sun, and Makino watched as Blackbeard stepped into view, out onto one of the massive, raft-like logs attached to the side of the hull.

He looked unchanged from how he’d been, just a few days ago, and the slow grin that stretched along his mouth seemed to solidify the realisation that had come to settle, a cold weight in her chest.

There was nowhere for her to run now.

“See now,” Blackbeard said, looking down at them from his perch. “I enjoy a good cat-and-mouse game, but this one’s dragged on a little too long for my patience.”

Before either of them had the chance to react, he’d pushed off the log, only to land on the main deck where they were standing, and with more ease than his considerable bulk ought to allow, Makino thought. She fought the urge to take a step back.

Righting himself, Blackbeard met her glare with a widening smile. “So, nee-chan,” he said. “Let’s do this one more time, from the top. You’ve been a real _pain_ in the ass to track down.” He swept his hand towards her, as though to indicate it was her turn to speak, like it really was nothing but a game to him. A great, twisted performance, for nothing but sport.

Anger pushed up under her skin, a hot flush in her cheeks, and she felt the eyes of the crew on her back. Buggy’s too, no doubt at the fact that Blackbeard was addressing her directly.

When she made no move to speak, Blackbeard’s grin fell, and his face contorted — not into distaste, but disappointment, as though she hadn’t lived up to his expectations. “Sheesh,” he said. “Tough crowd. Not much for audience participation, huh?”

“What did you do to Sabo?” Makino asked, before she could stop herself, or think better of provoking him. But it gripped her now, that feeling from before — that vicious, protective thing that made her hands clench to fists at her sides, even with Blackbeard towering, less than two paces in front of her. She had to crane her neck to look at him.

A smile curled along his mouth. “Don’t worry. Blondie’s still kicking.” He inclined his head to the ship at his back. “At least he was when I tossed him in the brig.”

He looked at her then, eyes brightening with that terrible gleam — the one that suggested delight, only dark and corrupt. “Nice distraction, by the way. You almost got away, too. A bit cold, though, abandoning Blondie like that.” His grin widened, that wicked stretch of missing teeth. “Then again, I like a woman who’s a little ruthless.”

Makino tried not to let it faze her — tried not to let it get under her skin, the suggestion that she’d willingly left him behind without a backward glance. She’d already spent a whole day considering that guilt from every angle. She knew it intimately, but somehow, hearing it from Blackbeard was worse than any blame she could have offered herself — the teasing suggestion that there was something in her that he’d consider admirable.

But thinking about Sabo, there was another question on her tongue, to ask if he had her son — if he’d somehow found him and taken them both, and that Ace was on the ship behind him.

She didn’t know what she wanted the answer to be.

She caught Buggy looking at her, brows furrowed deep, as though he was trying to make sense of their relation, but Makino didn’t meet his gaze, eyes fixed resolutely on Blackbeard.

“The hell do you want her for?” Buggy asked him then, dragging Blackbeard’s eyes away from Makino.

He blinked, seeming to notice him for the first time. “Hey...Red-Nose? Sorry, can’t remember your name,” he said, and Makino heard Buggy choke in outrage, along with something that sounded like a strangled _red_?

Blackbeard was looking between them now, something like amusement flitting across his expression. “But that’s some luck you’ve got, nee-chan, running into this guy. You used to be on Roger’s ship, right? With Red-Hair.” His grin quirked, before he added, dryly, “The dynamic duo.”

Buggy sneered, although Makino couldn’t tell what prompted it — the mention of his nose, or Shanks. “What about it?”

Blackbeard’s grin slipped into a frown. “The hell do you mean ‘what about it’?”

Makino’s heart sank, and she watched as Buggy’s eye twitched. “I mean what does that bastard have to do with this?”

She watched as Blackbeard turned his gaze on her, one brow raised. “You didn’t tell him?” he asked, seeming genuinely perplexed. “Figured that’s how you convinced him to take you.” At Buggy’s confused look, he drawled, “Warlords coming into port always leave a trail of gossip, Big-Nose. When I heard that _your_ ship had taken off, I figured she had to be on it.”

He seemed to consider them, grin lifting into something curiously delighted. “Shit, that’s lucky for _me_ , then,” he laughed. “Then again, you made it pretty easy, meeting me halfway like this. Not the sharpest tool, I guess.”

Makino caught Buggy’s look, and Blackbeard’s suggestion seemed to have distracted him from catching that last slight. “You know Shanks?” he asked.

Blackbeard grinned, gaze sliding back to Makino. “Seeing as she’s married to the guy, I’d call that an understatement.”

Buggy choked, rounding on her. “You’re _what—_ ”

Makino didn’t meet his eyes — couldn’t look at the expression on his face. She heard his surprise echoed in the crew at their backs, and fought down the mounting tide of guilt, regretting then, fiercely, that she hadn’t told him sooner.

“Man,” Blackbeard said then, still grinning, but it had a different quality to it now, she saw. “Getting a better look at you, I’m thinking Red-Hair had the right idea.” He cocked his head, expression shifting into something distinctly pleased. “You’re demure, like a woman should be. I’ve got to hand it to Shanks— _hah_!” He threw his head back. “Hand. Get it?”

When her frown didn’t budge, his face fell. “ _C’mon_ ,” he whined, and his expression was so genuinely put-off, Makino was almost tempted to believe it. “Don’t tell me you don’t have a sense of humour. Can’t be married to that guy without one. I don’t believe it.”

Makino said nothing. She didn’t think she could have managed, between the anger that wouldn’t stay down, and that fierce, ugly feeling she didn’t know was longing or grief. And she’d never missed him more than she did now, with everything unravelling around her and nowhere for her to turn.

Blackbeard snorted, seeming to yield his effort sparking a reaction. “At least you’re easy on the eyes.” Then, spreading his arms wide, grin stretching in time with the gesture, “Sure you don’t want to be my woman instead? You can stay in my quarters instead of the brig.” His look held far too much promise, and genuine terror cinched tight around her heart, leaving her short of breath.

Someone stepped up beside her then, and Makino startled, not having sensed them moving. But then there were bodies in front of her, and close at her back, caging her in. Her mouth worked, but her voice failed her.

Blackbeard only raised a brow at the demonstration. “Nice circus,” he said. “You about to put on a show?” When he got no answer, he snorted. “Mah, as much as I’ve enjoyed this little performance, I’m itching to get going, so unless you’re planning on jumping ship,” he told Makino, “this is the part where you come with me. So get your kid, and let’s go.”

Hope asserted itself then, with a vengeance.

He didn’t have Ace.

She felt lightheaded with it; that sudden, mindless hope. “My son isn’t here,” Makino heard herself saying, calmly.

Blackbeard blinked. “Eh?”

She righted her shoulders. The pirates in front of her hadn’t budged. “Search the ship if you don’t believe me,” she told him. “You won’t find him.”

He groaned, head dropping back, as though seeking the skies for answers, or patience. “I’m regretting this whole damn venture.” He looked back at her, brows furrowing. “What kind of mother leaves her kid behind, anyway?”

That—stung. And it had meant to, Makino knew, but refused to let her expression waver from the glare she had levelled at him.

“Jeez,” Blackbeard sighed. Then, seeming to consider her, that same, put-upon expression having drawn his features tight with annoyance, “Whatever,” he said. “You’ll do, anyway.” He glanced at the crew at her back, who’d all stepped closer, gaze lingering on the few who’d stepped in front of her. Makino thought he looked amused.

“Come on,” he told her then. “Get moving, so I can sink these guys.”

She saw the pirates in front of her tense, the reaction echoed by the rupture of distress and anger rippling through the men at her back, and Makino felt herself go cold. And it wasn’t guilt she felt now, but something worse, realising that she’d doomed them to this fate — and wilfully, having kept from them the reason she’d even been running that day.

So many of her choices seemed to circle back to the same thing, deciding the fates of others — first Fuschia, and then Dragon’s people. The innkeeper and her daughter, and that whole town. Blackbeard had been looking for her, and even if she hadn’t forgiven Dragon for keeping her on that ship, he’d saved her village, and none of them had deserved the fate that had met them, because of her.

No more.

The calm that had seized her didn’t let go, as Makino fixed her gaze on Blackbeard and said, evenly, “I’ll go with you.”

She got an arched brow for that. “That’s kind of the point here, but okay.”

“No,” Makino said. There was none of her panic to be found now. For the first time in weeks, she felt completely steady. “You misunderstand me. I’ll go with you, but only if you leave them be. I’ll surrender quietly. I won’t make a fuss.”

Her gaze hardened, and she knew he caught it from the way his brows climbed upwards. “But if you don’t, I will fight you every step of the way. I will make you _miserable_.”

Buggy’s crew had gone silent, and she watched as Blackbeard tilted his head. His expression held distaste — and something she couldn’t read. “I could just kill you now and be done with it,” he said then.

“You wouldn’t,” Makino countered, and was glad when her voice didn’t so much as waver. “You need me alive, otherwise you wouldn’t have gone through the trouble of tracking me down.”

Blackbeard’s lip curled in a sneer. “I’m beginning to think you’re more trouble than you’re worth, actually.”

“Maybe,” she agreed. “And I could be more, still. It depends on what you do.”

He watched her, and Makino held his gaze, refusing to drop it, even if it felt like it took all her strength just to keep standing — to keep looking at him, when just the sight of him turned her stomach.

And she had to believe she had him pegged right — that she was worth keeping alive, and that his patience couldn’t bear to suffer resistance. He didn’t strike her as a tolerant man, for all that he was a patient, cunning one. Demure, he’d called her, and she could be that — her whole expression promised it, and a worse fate for him, if he didn’t agree to her terms.

 _Leverage_ , she thought. It was all about leverage with these people, Dragon and Blackbeard both. And if they meant to use her, then Makino could, too — would use herself, for all she was worth.

He sighed then, a drawn-out, exaggerated thing. “I don’t need another mouthy woman on my ship,” he muttered, and something stirred at the back of her mind, but before she could question what he meant by that, Blackbeard said to Buggy, “Keep your weird fruit, slice-and-dice.” He snorted. “Hard pass on that ability, now that I think about it.”

He looked at Makino then. “It’s a deal, nee-chan. I’ll leave this circus of freaks intact. Waste of firepower, anyway.” His grin was an ugly thing. “Don’t forget, though—you’re doing this willingly. No complaints about the accommodation.” His eyes curved, and the grin stretched wider, as he crooned, “Or anything else.”

The appreciative way he was looking at her made her want to throw up, a cold fear creeping in to dissolve her earlier calm, realising what she’d just agreed to. And she couldn’t even make herself imagine what he might expect her surrender to entail. If she did, Makino didn’t think she could take a single step aboard that ship.

But it wouldn’t have been any different, if she’d gone against her will. Looking at Blackbeard, Makino felt sure of that. At least now she had some semblance of control over her own situation, even if it felt like anything but.

Her limbs felt like they wouldn’t answer to her commands, lead-heavy as she turned to Buggy, still watching her with that slack-jawed expression. But she wouldn’t break — not from regret, or that crippling fear, or anything else. Not yet.

Back turned to Blackbeard, she made a show of plucking at her shirt, but didn’t have to feign her nervousness, or her shaking fingers. She didn’t allow herself to meet the gazes of the crew, who were all watching her with varying expressions of fury and disbelief.

She wished, suddenly, that she’d met them under different circumstances.

“I’m sorry,” she told Buggy quietly, lifting her eyes to his. She hoped the full weight of her sincerity transferred. “For not telling you.”

He was looking at her — like he was seeing her clearly for the first time, but Makino couldn’t tell what he made of her now. But it didn’t matter what it was, because Blackbeard wouldn’t give her long, and she needed to say this, no matter what Buggy thought.

“Thank you, Buggy,” she said, reaching out to take one of his hands in hers, ignoring how much her own were shaking. He looked at them, gaze seeming drawn of its own volition.

“Shanks was right,” she told him, smile faltering despite her attempts at keeping her composure from slipping, and she watched his gaze shoot back to hers. He seemed too shocked to speak. “You’re a good friend.”

She gripped his hand once, tightly, before letting it drop. And before he could say anything, she’d turned away, pushing past the pirates and making for Blackbeard, observing them with that self-satisfied smile that left no doubt of whether he considered the deal to be in his favour.

Someone had dropped down a ladder, and Blackbeard held out his hand to help her board the ship. Makino squeezed her eyes shut, accepting it, and promptly refused to look at him — fearing that if she did, she really would break; that she would lose the careful composure she’d drawn about her like a shield. And she needed that shield, if she was going to survive on this ship.

The moment she had the ladder in her grip she yanked her hand back like she’d been burned, before remembering a second too late that he might consider it as counter to the terms of her own bargain. And Buggy’s ship was still there — there was nothing stopping him from declaring the deal null and void, and killing them all.

A tight coil of fear curled through her, nearly making her hold on the ladder slip, but Blackbeard didn’t seem to have taken offence at her reaction, although Makino didn’t know if it was relief she felt, as she completed the climb, fingers numb where they gripped the ladder, until she’d finally stepped onto the quarterdeck.

She felt Blackbeard stepping up behind her, presence large and oppressive. Dark. And she felt smaller than she ever had, standing there beneath the towering mast, and the black sails spread wide overhead, obscuring the sky. Dragon’s ship seemed a kindness in comparison.

She didn’t look back as they began to pull away, at the crew she’d left behind. One of so many, although somehow, this loss weighed heavier than she could have imagined, a short day ago. It wrapped around her windpipe, her heart, until she had to remind herself to keep breathing.

“Welcome aboard, nee-chan,” Blackbeard said then, making no effort to temper his satisfaction as he gave a wide sweep of his hand, indicating the main deck. There were pirates gathered, a considerably sized crew, and Makino ignored the appreciative gazes sliding her way, and that fear, pushing up, _up—_

A hand gripped her shoulder, almost amicably, and she couldn’t stop herself from flinching, but if he noticed, Blackbeard let it slide. And her silence didn’t seem to affect his high spirits, grin still in place as he steered her towards what she hoped was the brig, and that he wasn’t about to make good on his earlier suggestion, of staying in his quarters.

There was a man waiting as they approached, spindly and pale-faced, and wearing a smile that sent a chill shooting up her spine.

“Checkmate at last?” he asked, keen gaze lingering on Makino a beat too long for comfort. It wasn’t the same, leering look as those regarding her from across the deck, but it felt terrible for an entirely different reason. Blackbeard only grinned.

“You got the helm?”

That awful smile quirked, the thin line of his red mouth looking almost black against his face. “I’m no longer the navigator, Admiral.”

“Ah—right,” Blackbeard laughed. “Shit, I forgot. Sorry, Lafitte. Force of habit.”

The man called Lafitte gave a shrug of his shoulders. “It’s of no matter. I might as well set our course, while I am on board.”

Then he was moving past them, twirling the cane in his hand, and Makino felt the one gripping her shoulder tighten, the order clear.

She forced herself not to think about it, feeling suddenly that if she did, she might do something stupid, like wrest herself away, just so he would stop touching her. Instead she thought about Shanks, who she’d only seen afraid once in her life — and her son, who was too young yet to know fear like the one she felt now, and who she hoped never would.

Shaking fingers clenched to fists, her wedding ring digging into her skin, Makino focused all her attention on it, until she couldn’t feel the nausea any more, or anything else — made herself small and her heart still, the waters within her utterly quiet. Not so much as a ripple in sight, even as she felt the depths churning, anger or something worse yet pushing towards the surface.

But it didn’t break it, and it was a small victory, Makino thought, as Blackbeard held the door open with exaggerated courtesy, and it took all the willpower she possessed not to quail at the sight of the looming doorway.

And she didn’t know what he had planned, or for what purpose he needed her so badly, but she could make a fair guess, remembering another man, hard features unyielding, who’d looked at her coolly and spoke of war while her son slept and her husband’s heart broke, and she’d been as powerless to stop it then as she was now. And even if Dragon’s efforts had been in vain, Makino had the sinking feeling that whatever Blackbeard had planned, he wasn’t going to be waiting for others to act.

The remaining half of Shanks’ vivre card was clutched in her fist, crumpled but otherwise unmarred, but it might as well have been any other piece of paper, for all the answers it gave her.

She didn’t cry, and was grateful for that pitiful shred of control she dredged up from beneath the fear that threatened to make her knees buckle, as she forced herself to step through the doorway, even as a sob sat, lodged at the bottom of her throat—

_Where are you, Shanks?_

 

—

 

“Captain Buggy?”

He watched the ships as they drew away, the black sails a sharp contrast against the pale horizon, growing smaller, although the colour sat like a stain against the sky — against his retina, when he blinked. Buggy doubted he’d ever get rid of that image for as long as he lived.

And he might have climbed his way to his position through means other than the strictly honest, but he’d never felt the truth of it more keenly than he did now, realising just how woefully insignificant he was in comparison to a pirate like Blackbeard. Barely even worth the effort of killing, and it wouldn’t have taken him long, Buggy knew, to sink his whole ship.

But he hadn’t, because she’d lifted her chin and bartered her surrender for his life — for his crew, who she’d known a single day. The ones who’d taken her away from her kid, and who she owed nothing, least of all her loyalty.

And of course that bastard would marry someone like that. _Of course he would._

He was angry — was furious beyond measure, so much that his hands shook from it. Because he thought then, of Roger —  _Roger_ , who’d handed himself over, chin held high to the very last.

“Captain?” asked another voice, the query firmer now, a quaver sitting in it, but from anger, he heard, not from fear. He felt the echo of it in his gut — heard the murmur where it rippled across the crew at his back.

Uncurling his fingers, he considered the torn and crumpled sheaf of paper shuffling across his palm. He didn't need telling to know who it belonged to.

He thought of her hands then, too small to fathom — to imagine they could do anything useful, but he felt the imprint of her fingers, the way they’d gripped his when she’d tucked it into his palm, the wordless plea not a plea at all, but not an order, either.

He looked at his navigator, and spared a thought to how he always seemed to find himself dragged into these things. Like fate had a bone to pick with him.

Or maybe it was something else that fate had in mind — something that invoked a familiar, knowing grin, stretching beneath a ridiculous moustache, but that made his heart sit a little too close to his throat, remembering.

Cabaji was at his side then. “Is that Red-Hair’s?”

Buggy closed his fingers around the vivre card. “Yeah.”

“What are we going to do?”

He turned, striding for his cabin, steps sharp and tension strung taut across his whole body. “Keep to our course,” he snapped, sparing a last glance at the ships pulling away, those dark blots on an otherwise perfect horizon. He didn’t stand a chance against Blackbeard, but he remembered her hands; that surprisingly strong grip. She’d owed them _nothing_.

“First, we’re gonna go get that kid.”

 

—

 

The galley was quiet, unusually so for his crew, even changed as they were, and Shanks had a thought to wonder if they were avoiding him for his sake, or for their own.

He considered the picture in his hand, thumb rubbing idle patterns over the image, seeking the things he remembered — the tiny shape of her, and the roundness of her stomach under her hands, so small he could cover them whole with his only one. Her long hair tied back; the softest he'd known, spilling through his fingers when he teased it loose of her kerchief.

The photograph had become something of an anchor, and maybe that had been Garp’s intention in giving it. A reminder, of what he had to fight for, even if it wasn’t his to have. Not anymore.

There was a glass on the table in front of him, but he hadn’t touched it, the quiet waters of the drink undisturbed. He’d drunk so much that first week just to drown out the sound of her voice, he wondered if he’d ever want a glass again after this.

 _Can I get you a drink, Captain?_ laughed the voice in his memory, but he didn’t flinch away from it now. Not while he could still recall the sound of it.

He didn’t want to think about how long it would be before he forgot. The human memory had no mercy, even for the grieving. And he might have the photograph of her, to keep the memory of how she’d looked, but there were other things he knew he was bound to forget — little things, but none of them insignificant, like the quality of her laugh. The telling lilt her voice got when she was exasperated, and the cadence of it when she was pleased quite despite herself.

He thought he would have given anything to hear it again, just once.

The Den Den Mushi perked up then — gave a loud, almost startled chirrup, as though it finally remembered how to transfer a call, and Shanks glanced up to watch it blink into awareness.

He hesitated, arrested by the sudden sense that he knew who it would be; Teach, calling at last. And maybe he had tried before and not succeeded, but there wasn’t any comfort to be found in the delay, faced with the prospect now. Shanks doubted a whole year would have made him feel any different.

Rising from his seat, he made his way across the galley to where the snail was warbling on, seeming unconcerned by the possible implication of the call. He paused by the table where it sat, considering it, its wide-sprung eyes and the familiar, nasal trill.

But if he wasn’t strong enough to face Teach’s voice, how the hell was he supposed to survive facing him in person?

Something—anger, spite, or some stubborn combination of the two—made the decision for him, but when he reached out to grab the receiver, the snail stopped — blinked once, before closing its eyes, the call cut off. But then he’d taken his time answering, so maybe it wasn’t so strange the caller had lost their patience.

Shanks let his hand drop, a sigh following. But whoever had been on the other end of the line, he wasn’t given time to offer them much thought, when the door to the galley opened, admitting Ben.

And when Shanks met his gaze, he knew what was coming, even before his first mate announced, “We’ve got the coordinates. We know where Blackbeard’s fleet is.”

Shanks didn’t answer, dropping his eyes back to the Den Den Mushi. It was idle now, no further attempt offered from the other end.

He didn’t know why that bothered him.

“Orders?” Ben asked then.

“Inform the navigator,” Shanks said, simply. He touched his fingers to the pommel of his sword, seeking, the habit an old one, but the kerchief he’d used to keep there once was gone — Makino had untied it herself and smacked him with it, telling him pertly that it needed a wash. He’d forgotten to ask for it back.

And it never seemed to stop piling up, he thought — the things he’d lost, trivial as the smallest ones seemed in comparison to the greater, all-consuming loss. But they were all part of it, in one way or another. It wasn’t so much that he’d lost so many things, but rather that what he’d lost had affected such a vital part of who he was, there was no escape from it.

She’d known when she’d married him, that she was marrying both the man and the pirate — that there was no separating the two, but Shanks found the same truth to be his now, realising that there was no living as just the pirate, and not the man who’d been her husband; who’d been a father, for however short a time. There was no choosing one or the other — not when she’d chosen both and loved them equally, but like the photograph, the truth was an anchor now, not a sentence.

He doubted defeating Teach would change anything; that it would make it easier to keep living, but it wasn’t for himself that Shanks needed to do it. And it was a _need_ , now — a necessity, like needing to breathe and eat and sleep. He’d sharpened his grief into that conviction, that purpose. He only hoped it was enough.

“How long?” he asked Ben, fingers curling around the pommel of his sword, gripping.

“A few days,” Ben said, eyes tracking the movement, but he kept from mentioning it. “Given that he stays in one place. But considering the size of his ship, we shouldn’t have a problem catching up if he does move.”

Shanks nodded absently, thoughts elsewhere. The last time he’d seen her, on the Fuschia docks, their son in her arms.

“Shanks.”

He looked up, only to find Ben holding something out toward him, and it took him a moment to realise what he was looking at.

The watercolour book.

“The weather would have ruined it,” Ben said, as though in explanation, making Shanks look up, surprised. Then, the corner of his mouth twitching, not a smile, and _yet_ , he added, “Makino would have been outraged.”

Shanks stared. And it was a feat finding anything to say, or to even know how to respond, but, “Yeah,” he said then, voice rough, the word coming to him before he could think, along with a feeling that, for once, wasn’t sorrow. The sudden urge to smile was so startling, it took him a second to recognise it. “She would have.”

Ben was still holding the book towards him, and Shanks took it; tucked his fingers around it, the edges digging into his palm. The illustration on the front looked up at him, the colours still bright. Untouched.

He didn’t know when Ben had gone back for it, and didn’t ask. And he didn’t need to ask why, because he already knew the answer.

He’d been too hasty that day — too eager to surrender the reminders that he hadn’t been able to bear looking at. But Garp’s visit had changed things, and he was glad now, and desperately, for something to hold onto, even if his son had never actually touched it. Unlike the photograph and his wedding ring, it wasn’t a memory of what he’d had so much that it was a reminder of the future he’d wanted. And he didn’t want to forget that.

“You ready for this?” Ben asked then. “If you need more time, take it. The guys will understand.”

Grip tightening around the book, Shanks shook his head. “No,” he said, looking up to meet Ben’s gaze. “I’m ending it.”

Ben said nothing, but then Ben had never needed to speak to make himself understood.

He turned for the door then, and Shanks hesitated only a moment before following suit, considering the solitude of the galley once, before deciding against it. Given where they were headed and what awaited them, he’d take whatever time he had with his crew; the family he had left.

Shanks had no plans of surrendering, least of all to his own selfishness. He owed his crew more than that — owed Makino more, but for all his conviction, Blackbeard wasn’t an enemy faced lightly. They all knew that, like they all knew they might not see the end of that battle. They’d known since Marineford that it was coming, but at least now it would be on their terms. Whatever upper hand Teach had thought to gain from destroying Fuschia…Shanks refused to let him have it.

He spared a last glance at the Den Den Mushi as he walked out, but it didn’t stir again. A mercy, probably.

He would be facing Blackbeard soon enough.

 


	11. noose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The biggest thank-you to the lovely silverscream, for your continued interest in this story, and for letting me talk it over and bounce thoughts and ideas. And for listening to me prattle on about my grieving Shanks headcanons, which are apparently endless.
> 
> Some descriptions of violence in this chapter, just fyi!

The door closed behind them, shutting out the sunlight and the noise from the deck. It felt to Makino like a relief, shielding her from the eyes outside, although she could still feel them, somehow — if not their gazes on her, then the collective weight of their presences, like a coiling mass of snakes in her mind.

Her breathing came laboured, and she forced herself to focus on something else, although it wasn’t much better, stepping into Blackbeard’s private quarters. The sense of relief fled, as quickly as it had come.

The brig would have been kinder, she thought, eyes raised to take in the room, a heady dark draped with velvet and lit with gold, the soot-stained kerosene lamp dangling from the ceiling seeming more for show than practicality, yielding little useful light. It swayed slightly with the movements of the ship, the copper-and-gold casing gleaming, suffusing the room in a low, intimate light.

The lingering smell of tobacco reminded her suddenly of Ben, but the comparison was anything but a comfort.

It was cleaner than she’d expected, aside from the clutter. And it was big, although she found she wasn’t all that surprised. A captain’s testimony of power and wealth, displayed with shameless opulence, every bauble and trinket and drapery practically _oozing_ with it.

She thought of Shanks’ quarters, all dry, muted warmth and sparse practicality, with its bare wooden boards and clean sheets; a practical lamp for lighting, and a haphazard display of old maps, worn but cared-for. No plush rugs or draperies, only the sun painting patterns on the planks, creeping through the porthole with the sea breeze. She’d spent many mornings awake while he slept, watching the white and gold of the light marking its dawnlit path towards the bunk, and feeling the ship swaying beneath her, his arm warm and heavy across her hip.

There were few baubles to speak of there, other than an old, empty bottle of scotch (the last they’d shared before he’d left for the Grand Line, the first time), and a row of cheap paperbacks, faded covers straining with their burden of dog-eared pages where they'd been tucked into the shelves at random, amid the odd non-fiction book and old captain's logs, leather-bound pages full of that chicken-scratch handwriting she'd fondly rolled her eyes at more than once. A desk and a chair, and shirts shoved into odd nooks and available spaces. A single highball glass he’d won in a drinking game with the Pirate King. Even privately, Shanks had never been one for unnecessary grandeur, or for lavish displays of wealth.

Blackbeard was, and left little doubt about it. A massive mahogany desk sat sovereign at the cabin’s heart, a beastly structure carved with the gaping maws and clawed feet of dragons and sea-creatures, the top laden heavy with maps and books and trinkets — practically overflowing with _things_ , there looked to be little space left for anything else. Behind the desk sat a large, plush chair, upholstered with velvet, the dark, polished wood gilded at the edges. And behind that—

Her breath caught.

Books. Shelves upon shelves of _books._ And not the well-thumbed paperbacks that lined the shelves of her home— _had_ lined, she reminded herself, heart sinking at the thought; all those years of collecting, all her small treasures, their spines wrinkled and their covers lovingly bent, their pages stuffed full of notes, the margins bearing a whole crew’s worth of thoughts and impressions, left for her to find.

The spines looking back at her from Blackbeard’s collection had few wrinkles to speak of. Instead there were hard leather bindings, nearly all of them gilded or engraved, and some inlaid with jewels. Heavy tomes bearing heavy burdens, and she didn’t have to wonder long what they might be holding. History, and likely the kind the Government would rather keep out of the public’s eye. The kind of thing a man like Blackbeard would treasure.

She thought part of her might have felt intrigued once, at the sight of the books — that she might have felt delight at the prospect of such a trove at her fingertips. But it wasn’t intrigue or delight she found when she reached within herself, grasping for anything but the dread climbing up her chest like a scream.

Noticing the direction of her gaze, “Impressive, isn’t it?" he laughed. "The Government likes to keep its skeletons tucked away, but you can always root out a seller from the ranks who doesn’t give a shit about integrity. One of the great things about the human soul. It can always be bought, if you pay the right price.”

Makino felt him stepping past her, his presence seeming to claim more room than even his considerable bulk, and it took effort not to reach out to rub at her arms.

Blackbeard made a sweeping gesture at the shelves, the rings on his fingers catching in the low light. “This is what power buys you on this sea.” Tossing a look back at Makino, he grinned. “Well,” he conceded, with that low, dark laugh, bending down to root something out from under his desk. “That, and damn good scotch.”

He put a bottle down on the table. A glance at the label had her eyes widening despite herself.

“Nice, huh? Thought you might recognise it. You’re a barmaid, right?” he asked, gaze raking over her once. A sound escaped him, something that wasn’t quite a scoff, but close. “Knowing Red-Hair’s taste for drink, I shouldn’t be surprised,” he drawled. “A fitting match, I guess.”

Two crystal tumblers appeared on the desk, before the soft ‘pop’ of a cork yielding announced his intention, and without asking, he filled both glasses, the liquid seeming only to add to the exaggerated pomp of his quarters, liquid gold settling in glasses Makino suspected might have each cost more than her whole bar.

The thought of Party’s made her hands shake, and she tucked them into her elbows to keep them still. She’d slipped Shanks’ vivre card away and out of sight, but she felt the loss of it now, her palms empty. For all the good it had done her, just holding onto it had been a comfort, if a meagre one.

“Bottoms up, nee-chan,” Blackbeard said, making a gesture for her to take one of the tumblers. “No offence, but you look like you could use a drink,” he told her, when all she did was stare at it.

She lifted her eyes from the tumblers to find him watching her, as though gauging her reaction, and what she would do.

And she could have used a drink. In that moment, bone-tired and grieving, and her thoughts fleeting always to her baby, to Shanks, Makino thought she could have emptied the whole bottle, and it still wouldn’t be enough.

But it all ran a little too close to home; the two glasses, and the bottle of scotch. It was their tradition, her and Shanks’, whenever he’d come home, and the thought of invoking even the memory of it here, with Blackbeard…

Fingers digging into her palms, she kept the tight cross of her arms in place. Standing there, it felt like the only thing holding her together; as though her whole body would crumble if she allowed it to loosen, even just a little.

“That a no to the drink?” Blackbeard asked then, something flickering across his face that might have been disappointment, but it was gone before it had time to settle. “Eh. Your loss. I don’t think even Red-Hair would have turned down a glass of this stuff.”

She didn’t know what came over her. Maybe it was the too-casual mention, or the scotch, or both, but, “Even good scotch will taste foul if the person pouring it is,” Makino said, before she could stop herself. “And don’t presume to know what he’d do. You don’t know _anything._ ”

She regretted the words a second later, but Blackbeard didn’t take offence. On the contrary, a loud, booming laugh shook the crystal tumblers on the desk, and delight lit his eyes bright with something that almost made her want to take a step back. Involuntarily, her arms dropped — a pathetic safeguard, she realised a second later, but it had been automatic. She had nothing else.

“Oh I _like_ you,” Blackbeard said, before she’d had time to recover, and the words were so familiar Makino almost physically recoiled from them, the memory resurfacing without mercy, as though her mind kept latching onto comparisons, similarities and differences alike.

Except there was nothing of her husband in this man, and Makino forced herself to stand her ground, the heels of her boots digging into the rich carpet, her knees locked, rigid like the protective clench of her hands, her spine a bowstring pulled to the point of snapping.

Unconcerned by her near visceral reaction, Blackbeard tossed back the first drink, then the other, before merrily pouring himself a third, leaving the second glass empty. Makino watched him drink, as though it was just any other visitor he’d invited into his quarters, and not someone who was, essentially, a hostage.

The entirely casual display left her feeling torn between keeping her distance, and the urge to throw something across the room, just to jar him out of his ease. And spurred by the sudden feeling, the question was off her tongue before she could think. “What is it that you want?”

Blackbeard glanced up from where he was putting the cork back in the bottle. The scotch sloshed against the green-tinted glass as he put it down. “In general?” he asked. “Or with you?”

Makino didn’t answer, but she doubted he was pressing for specifics out of any genuine curiosity on his part.

And she knew what he wanted, ultimately. She’d talked it over with Ben, the subject exhausted into the late hours, those last few weeks of her pregnancy when she hadn’t been able to sleep. But it had helped, talking it over, channelling her focus and her worries both, until she’d felt like she’d had an idea of what they were dealing with.

But if Blackbeard had proved anything in the weeks since Fuschia had gone up in flames, it was that, whatever his endgame, there was no predicting his methods of making it come about. The fact that he’d hunted her down across the Grand Line after making a show of destroying her hometown was evidence enough of that.

She had her suspicions, of course, watching him from across the opulent chamber from where she stood, feeling woefully small under the towering ceiling and in clothes that had seen better days, her hair shorn and her arms empty of the baby she missed like a part of her soul.

And so when he said, “I’m going to cut Red-Hair a deal,” Makino wasn’t all that surprised.

She pressed her lips together. There was a coldness within her, considering the words, and the smile that still lit his eyes. “What kind of deal?”

That harrowing grin didn’t budge. And she already knew what kind of deal Blackbeard would offer; the man who desired supremacy above all else, who’d declared this age his own, and was doing what he could to make sure it came about, and on his terms.

“All his territory,” Blackbeard said, proving her suspicions right. But then he added, his grin widening with a sudden, terrible satisfaction, “And his willing surrender to the World Government.”

Makino’s heart seized, even before he continued, musingly, “It’s been a few years since we had an execution worth attending. An Emperor ought to do the trick. It’s not the Pirate King’s son, but it’ll rally the crowds. Stir the waters a bit.”

“He won’t go along with it,” she heard herself saying, but her voice sounded small, the room seeming to swallow it up. And even as she said it, she found a different truth within herself, sinking into that numbing coldness with a damning knowledge that left her feeling faint, like she needed to sit down.

Because she thought then, of the man she’d married, who didn’t flinch away from sacrifice. She remembered how he’d looked at her, the day he'd left her on the Fuschia docks for the last time, their son sleeping in his arm.

 _I would have you safe_ , he’d told her.  _More than anything._

She knew what Shanks would do; the choice he'd make.

Blackbeard’s grin told her he’d come to the same conclusion, and already long before her. “Oh no?” he asked. “Not even for his pretty wife, returned alive and well? I would have thrown your kid into the bargain too, but here were are. But then, something tells me you’ll be enough.”

The way he said it spoke of some knowledge she wasn’t privy to, but she couldn’t make herself ask him if he’d talked to Shanks.

She was shaking her head, but she didn’t have anything to offer that wasn’t denial, the echo of it ringing hollowly within her.

Lifting the refilled tumbler to his lips, Blackbeard shrugged. “And if he doesn’t agree, I’ll just kill you. We’ll have an execution of our own,” he said, tipping it back, before slamming the glass back down on the desk. Makino flinched. “So I guess we’ll see which of us is right about him.”

There was a dark gleam in his eyes, before he added, “And we’ll see how well you know the guy you married. Who knows? Maybe he’ll decide you’re not worth it. How long have you been married again? A few years? He’s had this sea for a mistress longer than that.”

He considered the tumbler, turning it over in his hand, as though studying the design. “But if he does agree, you should count yourself lucky. I’ll let you go. You can go find your kid, or whatever. Find some remote village to settle, and watch the broadcast. Knowing Red-Hair, he’ll put on a good show.”

She felt like she might throw up, but from anger rather than fear now, so furious she could barely think — could barely breathe past the enraged sob building in her chest. And it must show on her face, because Blackbeard laughed then, seeming suddenly delighted.

“You know,” he told her, watching her from across the cluttered desk. He reached for the bottle again, to refill his drink. “You’re more interesting than I thought you would be. When I heard Red-Hair had gone and married some girl from East Blue of all places, I figured there had to be a good reason, at least beyond what’s under your skirts.” He lifted his brows, his grin jeering. “Not saying that’s not a valid reason, although why he felt the need to go all the way to East Blue for it beats me. You know what they say about tavern wenches—doesn’t matter which sea, they’ll spread their legs without the incentive of a wedding ring.”

At the mention, his eyes flicked to her hand, and her fingers curled, trembling into her palm.

He tilted his head then, gaze shifting from her hand to the rest of her, appraising, as though observing a particularly curious piece of loot. And she wasn’t indecently dressed, but Makino felt suddenly like covering herself, feeling exposed under the weight of his eyes.

“Then again,” Blackbeard said, dragging the words out, like his smile. “You’re a damn fine sight. Just my type, too. Delicate, soft-spoken…” Her heart constricted when he added, grinning, “And just a little bit ruthless.” The look on her face had him laughing. “My kind of woman!”

Raising his glass, amber spilling through with gold in its crystal casing, he held her gaze, as her heart twisted to a knot in her chest. “To shameless opportunism,” he toasted, and when he knocked it back, it took all of Makino’s restraint to keep her mouth shut.

When he put the glass down, his grin faltered a bit. “Sheesh, you’ve got that terrifying motherly look down pat, I’ll give you that,” he said with a snort. “You still pissed about your village? I feel like I did you a favour, that place screamed _boring_ from two seas away.”

“It was my _home_ ,” Makino said, voice breaking over the word. And she hated that she couldn’t sound angry, when she felt herself shaking with it; hated that she always sounded on the verge of tears, when what she wanted was fury, harsh and spitting. “You would have killed everyone in it, if Dragon hadn’t intervened.”

He frowned, the expression on his face an exaggerated lament, and the twist of his mouth looked almost convincingly put-off. “C’mon. You don’t really think I’d stoop that low, do you? Killing women and babies? I’m not heartless.”

Her expression told him plainly what she thought about that declaration, but if anything, Blackbeard only looked pleased.

“I like a good show,” he told her then. Not an excuse, just a statement of fact. “And tugging on Dragon’s leash. Guy like that gets too much power, he starts thinking he’s the one calling all the shots.”

“So it’s all a game to you?” And she didn’t care that her voice quavered now; didn’t care that her anger couldn’t manage to be hard and cutting. If it was all she had, let him hear it.

Blackbeard snorted. “Like it’s not to everyone else on this sea? Everyone’s playing a game, sweetheart. Either you play by someone else’s rules, or you make your own.” He shrugged. “Or you change the game.”

“Or you cheat,” Makino slipped in, quietly.

He met her eyes, still with that too-pleased grin. “Your point? Cheating’s only a mistake if you get caught doing it. And good cheaters don’t get caught.” He looked at her then, with that dark, almost intimate appraisal. She tried not to flinch away from it.

“But speaking of games,” Blackbeard said. “You’ve been playing one, too. Try the victim angle all you want, but you’re here by your own choice.”

“You destroyed my _home,_ ” she snapped. “My son is—”

“Hey, I didn’t lay a finger on your kid,” he cut her off, smile wiped off with a glare. “That one’s on you. I wasn’t the one who left him behind to save my own ass.”

“I had no choice!”

He shrugged, seeming undaunted by the shrill note that had crept into her voice. “Could have come quietly the first time, and brought him along. Like I said, I don’t resort to killing women and children.” A contemplative pause, and, “Well. Not usually, anyway. Can’t always control who gets caught in the crossfire. You know how it is.”

The way he was talking made her want to shout, just to override that chilling calm, as he spoke of human casualties like numbers without worth.

The opposite of Dragon, she thought then, watching Blackbeard fiddle with a loose trinket on his desk. This wasn’t a man who cared about the lives of the many, or even the few. No, this was a man who cared about one person only, a fact glaringly apparent from everything she’d seen since stepping aboard his ship.

She wondered if he purchased loyalty like he did everything else, and if so, what he used to pay for it. But hearts couldn’t be bought, Makino knew. Not truly. Even Dragon, for all his own brand of ruthless opportunism, had known that much.

The thought brought her a single, small flicker of satisfaction, before that too was snuffed out, leaving her cold and empty. Hollowed-out, like she’d been scraped clean, nothing left but exhaustion and grief. What good did it do her now, that Dragon had been the better alternative? Even if he had saved her village, and allowed her to leave his ship, he wouldn’t lift a hand to help her any sooner than the man before her.

“What about Luffy’s brother?” she asked then, and watched as his eyes flicked up from his desk to where she was standing. “You might as well have killed him, for what you did.”

She didn’t specify which brother, but Makino didn’t think she needed to. And Blackbeard only shrugged, seeming wholly unfazed by the blatant accusation in her voice.

“Ace wasn’t a kid. He was old enough to decide for himself what he wanted, and he wanted to be a pirate. I wanted to get into the Government’s good graces. A shame it had to be that way, but them’s the rules. It’s a pirate’s life, nee-chan. At least for us.” He looked at her, the corner of his mouth jutting up; an ugly, vulture’s smile. “And for you.”

“I never wanted a pirate’s life,” Makino said, but heard even as she did how hollow the words rang.

His answer wasn’t anything she didn’t already know. “Should have thought about that before you married one,” Blackbeard drawled. “And you might not call yourself a pirate, but you sure as hell act like one. You didn’t get this far by sitting on your ass.”

Makino bristled, and a slow smile curled along his mouth. And she knew she was handing him everything, all her reactions and feelings offered up for his perusal, but she couldn’t help it. It had never in her life felt more like a weakness than it did now.

“At least I’m honest about my lack of scruples,” he said then. “But if you really didn’t have it in you, I would have caught up with you when I sank Dragon’s ship. And yet here you are. Blondie was hell bent on letting you get away, and from the looks of Red-Nose’s posse, they weren’t about to let you go without a fight. Interesting, that. You knew them, what, two days?”

The casual mention made her feel sick, although Makino couldn’t decide if it was just the thought of what had happened to Dragon’s people, or the suggestion Blackbeard wasn’t even bothering to temper — that she’d exploited them and Buggy both for her own, selfish gain.

And she couldn’t help the feeling that he’d hit the mark, thinking of her first conversation with Sabo, that night belowdecks on Dragon’s ship, and _if the world thinks Fuschia is gone, so does Luffy_. And she thought of Buggy, and the two halves of Shanks’ vivre card.

Blackbeard was right; she hadn’t been sitting, the victim of someone else’s schemes. She’d made her own.

The guilt that surged up within her was almost enough to make her knees buckle.

Suddenly desperate, she tried to look for Buggy’s ship — to throw out some part of herself, grasping for purchase, for anything that wasn’t the people she could feel at her fingertips now, just beyond the door at her back; the leering eyes that had trailed her across the deck with promises she didn’t need to hear spoken to recognise.

She didn’t know how she did it, but she was good at feeling out people. It was a keen sense she’d always had, of knowing just who would be walking through the doorway of her bar, a second before they did. She could be busy with inventory, with her closing routines, but footsteps on her porch and there’d be a greeting with a name on her tongue without even looking up to confirm her guess. She just _knew_.

Some were easier to pick out than others. Shanks had always been a firm presence in her mind, easy to single out from a crowd; a boundless well of warmth she could seek with her eyes closed, and that always left a tingle under her skin, and in her head. She’d glibly compared it to a mild hangover once, and he’d laughed so hard he’d nearly fallen out of his seat, and kissed her harder.

And she knew Ben’s, calm and ever-steady; and Yasopp’s, like a sharp point of focus. Garp’s had always loomed, an unshakable pillar in her mind, and Luffy had been all wild, unrestrained energy, sunshine-bright.

She tried to look beyond herself now, seeking, beyond the hull and the ship, and Blackbeard’s dark, pervasive presence that seemed to swallow up everything else, but found herself coming up short. Which meant they must have already put Buggy’s ship far behind them, if she couldn’t single out a soul on it.

She tried not to feel panic at the fact, terror climbing up her chest now, realising just how pathetically, desperately _alone_ she was. Although—

 _Sabo_ , Makino thought suddenly, and latched onto that realisation like a lifeline. Blackbeard had said he’d put Sabo in the brig, which meant she wasn’t alone, not entirely.

Grasping at that hope with fumbling hands, she was looking for him before she knew what she was doing, sifting through the unfamiliar presences on the ship like rifling through a messy drawer, pushing away everything she didn’t know, knowing what she was looking for but not wholly certain how to go about finding it, but—

 _There_. It was faint, but she could feel it. A palpable warmth, in a lot of ways similar to Shanks’, but unique unto itself. It felt just beyond her reach, like she had to strain herself, fingertips barely brushing against the edge of it, like holding her hand out to a fire but only feeling the echo of the heat, but it was enough to settle her heart somewhat.

Blackbeard was looking at her curiously, something like recognition having alighted behind his eyes, and Makino had the sudden dread that she’d done something wrong.

She saw him survey the desk then, a curious smile overtaking his features. But with all the clutter, she couldn’t tell what he was looking at, even as he reached forward, to pluck something out from between the pile of rolled-out maps and paperweights and open books. A coin rolled off the surface of the desk, to bounce off the lush carpet. Makino followed its escape, envious, before her eyes were dragged back by the sharp gleam of metal catching in the lamplight.

She recognised it at a breath, but not because she’d seen the _weapon_ before. No, it was the evidence of what a weapon like that could do that she’d seen — a pattern she could sketch in her sleep, because she’d traced the grooves in her husband’s skin until she’d known them by heart. And she found their echo as Blackbeard lifted the weapon off the table, before sliding it over his wrist.

Four long, slender blades, like elongated claws, the tips glinting in the muted glow of the kerosene lamp.

“Oh?” Blackbeard asked, catching her look — and the expression on her face. He flexed his fingers, his grin curving, an edge as sharp as the weapon strapped to his hand. “Told you the story, did he? Colour me surprised.”

Makino didn’t answer. She felt suddenly breathless with anger, eyes fixed on the weapon; those wicked blades.

It was a feat dragging her gaze away, and when she raised it to Blackbeard, she very nearly spat the words, “He said it was a dirty move.”

If she’d expected him to take offence at the accusation, it wasn’t what she got. “Hah!” he bellowed, the laugh lashing out, almost making her take a step back. Then with a widening grin, “He’s right,” he agreed, his voice a low purr. “Then again, I don’t make a point of denying that I play dirty.” He took a moment to consider the blades, turning his hand over, as though he hadn’t used the weapon in a while, and was reacquainting himself with the feel of it.

“Mah,” he expelled a breath. “Couldn’t help myself. He was pretty damn infuriating back then. You know what they used to call him? ‘The heartthrob of West Blue’. Shit, like his ego wasn’t big enough already. Those scars were an improvement, if you ask me. Brought him down a few pegs, if anything.”

He held the blades up, peering through them to Makino where she stood, arms rigid at her sides and her hands gripping her skirt until her knuckles bled white. And whatever he found in the image, it made his mouth lift with a grin, before he lowered the blades, although he didn’t take them off.

She watched as he stepped around the desk, a relaxed, confident swagger, and forced herself to stand her ground.

“Answer me this,” he said then, tapping the flat end of the blades against his palm. “Did you meet before or after he lost the arm? Woman like you could probably have her pick, but you went for the mutilated amputee. No accounting for taste, I guess, unless you were already involved with him. Did you stick around out of pity?”

She didn’t answer. She felt too angry for words, not to speak or even shape them in her mouth. Like her whole body was thrumming with it, begging for release, but there was no outlet. Makino felt she might have sobbed from it, the fury that sat like a jagged stone lodged in her windpipe.

Blackbeard swept his arms wide, his grin wider still, gold-hemmed coat flaring out, an exaggerated flourish. “He’s not here now. Sure you wouldn’t rather want a whole man?”

She thought, detached, that the remark might have done it — that she might have snapped, a scream tearing loose, anger or something worse dragged from her quiet depths to break the surface, and to _break_ , the man before her, the ship around her, all of it to splinters, bone and blood and wood, until there was nothing left.

But the question stilled her mounting fury into cowering, carrying an implication his expression didn’t bother with. Instead, the hunger she found in the rake of his gaze was explicit in its desire, and from the look of him, Blackbeard meant for her to see it.

That fear from earlier came rearing back, seeming to cinch tight around all her limbs, locking her legs and freezing her in place. She couldn’t breathe.

And she’d thought she could survive, if she could just get across this ocean. If she could just find Shanks, and Ace, she could endure a few scrapes. Her hair. Her home. She could have persisted, and dusted herself off, a little worse for wear, but she could have _lived_ at the end of it.

But if he made good on the promise she found in his eyes, that awful hunger that burned darker than anything else about him, Makino didn’t know how she’d survive that. If she even could.

A sneer curled his lip then, hunger replaced with distaste, and, “No need for that look—I like my women willing,” he said. But there was no relief to be found in the assurance, her body rebelling against it, and when he smiled it had a harder edge to it now, Makino saw. “But if willingness is the issue, I can be pretty convincing…”

He allowed the suggestion to trail off, with all the dripping confidence that said he thought he might well succeed — as though he thought it well within the realm of possibility that she’d take him up on the offer. As though she could be persuaded with power and wealth, nevermind the fact that he’d ripped apart her home, her family, and all for his own, selfish pursuits.

As she so often did, when she grasped for foothold, she reached for Shanks — for the heart that had been so very convincing in its affections and desires, but that had never presumed, or considered her own a given. Not even when he’d come back to her two years ago had he come with expectations. Just hope, offered up at the Fuschia docks like he’d once offered up his heart.

And she didn’t know if it was strength or something else that she drew from the memory (his arm wrapped around her back and his laughter in her ear, warm and winded with relief, just at touching her), but it flared up within her now, righteous and angry and so desperately, mercilessly _longing,_ it left her short of breath.

“Nothing in this world could convince me,” Makino said, biting the words off, fury rather than fear shoving past her better judgement now, scrambling for her tongue, and her next words were out of her mouth before she could stop them—

“And two arms or not, you’ll never be half the man he is.”

Blackbeard’s expression changed at that, displeasure chasing across it, to wring his features into a disdainful twist; an ugly mien carrying an even uglier promise, and she knew she’d made a mistake even before he’d lifted the blades to her cheek.

He tipped the weapon almost lazily, and Makino felt the cold kiss of the metal against her skin, the wicked-sharp edge of one of the blades nipping her cheekbone, stilling her breath in her chest. She didn’t realise she’d been cut before she felt the trickle of something wet down her cheek, but her arms were like lead where they hung, useless at her sides.

Blackbeard didn’t remove the weapon from where the tip had bit into her skin, the barest cut drawing blood, and there was a beat where Makino didn’t think she could have moved if she’d tried.

She felt the languid slide of it down her cheek, before it gathered at her jaw. It took all the strength she possessed to shove the sob back down before it dragged loose of her, but she kept her chin up, and didn’t drop her eyes, even as it felt like her insides were turning in on themselves, wrung like rag.

“So what about it, nee-chan?” Blackbeard asked, no trace of humour in his expression now. “A set of matching scars?”

A glint in his eyes, and he moved before she could blink, his arm rearing back, the gleam of the blades her only warning before he struck.

But she felt it — a sudden sense that she _knew_ , just how far back she had to throw herself to avoid the tips of the blades, but she was too late scrambling herself together for a reaction.

She threw her arm up to shield her face, just a second too late, and felt the sharp bite of the metal into the skin of her forearm.

She tried to catch herself before she fell, the pain blossoming over her cheek and jaw registering the second she hit the rug, and so hard it jarred her whole body. White-hot agony flared up her arm, like she’d stuck it into a pile of burning embers, reaching all the way to her shoulder, the pain a hundred times worse than her face, and the sound that choked out of her wasn’t a sound at all.

An uproarious laugh rose from above her, and in many ways it might have been like Shanks’, but it was something else entirely, some chaotic revelry in the sound that made the hairs on the back of her neck rise. But the comparison was a strangely detached thing, lifting her hand from where she’d clamped it around her arm, to find her palm slick with blood.

“Observation haki, huh?” Blackbeard was asking then, although it didn’t seem to be directed at Makino. “Looks like I had the right guess. Could probably have dodged it if you’d had training. Shame. I liked your face.”

The words barely registered through the ringing in her ears. Her hand shook where she held it in front of her, the blood bright against her skin, and the soft rise of her callouses.

Looking down at her right arm found the sleeve of her blouse shredded, and four deep lacerations, blood welling from the cuts, bleeding black through the fabric. She felt something hot and wet sliding down her throat, and touched shaking fingers to her cheek, only to find four more cuts, smaller, but she could feel them, gaping in her skin.

She threw up. Her whole body heaved as she retched, emptying the contents of her stomach on the lush, red rug. And she hadn’t eaten a lot, just a meagre breakfast aboard Buggy’s ship, but even after she had nothing left in her she kept retching, the pressure in her chest and throat making it feel like her ribs were about to break. Her vision blurred with tears, sliding down her cheeks, the right side of her face stinging like she’d been cut all over again, but she couldn’t seem to focus on anything beyond the violent heaving.

 _Shock_ , she thought belatedly. Her whole body shook from it, cold sweat washing across her back, making her teeth chatter, and she could barely see past the tears.

A hand around her arm then, hoisting her to her feet, but she was only vaguely aware of the movement, blinded by the pain seeming to come from everywhere at once, pressing against her arm, against her skull, until she couldn’t think beyond it, the weight of it dragging her down like someone had wrapped an anchor around her neck.

She passed out before he’d dragged her belowdecks. And the dark had never been more welcome than when it greeted her now.

 

—

 

Sabo was on his feet already at the sound of footsteps beyond their cell, and Koala had just opened her eyes in time to see Blackbeard striding inside the brig, dragging a body with him.

It didn’t take her more than a glance to recognise who he’d brought, and Sabo must have done the same, because he faltered at the sight, and when their cell door swung open he barely had time to catch Makino as Blackbeard threw her inside, before slamming it shut, the sound clanging loudly between the bulkheads.

Koala was at his side before he’d even sunk to his knees, fingers scrambling to look for a pulse, the body in their arms unmoving. The words dragged with a quivering rasp up his throat, “What— _what did you do to her?_ ”

A glance at Blackbeard found him grinning. “Is it too dramatic to say ‘poetic justice’?”

The gasp escaped her before she could swallow it back down, realising what he meant — finding the evidence staring up at her from Makino’s face when she turned it over.

Four cuts, running from her right cheekbone to her jaw, the skin around them raw and puckered, and tracks of blood streaking her throat.

Sabo stared at the cuts, seeming for a second struck beyond reacting. Then, the temperature in their cell surging like the inside of an oven, he’d rounded on Blackbeard, a roar dragged up from deep in his chest, “ _You—_ ”

He was on his feet in a second, Makino’s unconscious weight yielded for Koala to carry. He lunged for the bars, and she would have hauled him back by his shirt if she could have reached him. “Sabo-kun!”

Sabo slammed his hands against the bars with a wordless shout, but Blackbeard only watched him, amused.

“Easily ignited temper runs in your flock of siblings, doesn’t it?” he asked. “Ha!” he laughed then. “Ignited. I’m on a roll today.”

Sabo looked ready to melt the door to their cell, but he kept from lunging again, fingers shaking where they gripped the bars, as though to bend them. “ _You bastard_.”

For his part, Blackbeard just observed him calmly. He flicked his eyes to Koala, and Makino’s prone shape.

“She’ll be fine,” he said, offhand. “I’ll send Doc down later.” He met Koala’s gaze, one brow arched. “So hold your punches this time, or I’ll leave her bleeding. And you wouldn’t want an infection in those cuts, or scars will be the least of her problems.”

Then he turned on his heel, seeming content to leave them without another word, the heavy fall of his footsteps making the planks whine and creak, a jarring song that shrieked against her eardrums.

Sabo didn’t waste time watching him depart, and then he was kneeling beside Koala again, hands reaching out, before they stopped, hovering over the cuts.

But, “They’re shallow,” Koala said, voice shaking. The breath that rushed out of her threatened to loosen a sob. “They’re not that deep. If she gets them cleaned....” She didn’t know for whose benefit she was saying it, or even what good her assurances did. Blackbeard might not send his doctor down, like he’d said. He’d taken his sweet time, before he’d sent him to set Koala’s fingers.

“He can’t have put a lot of force behind it,” Sabo was saying then, eyes on the marks. “I’ve been on the receiving end of his attacks. Her face would have been completely mutilated.”

Koala frowned, shaking her head, although she didn’t know what she was refuting. But Sabo was right, the cuts should have been deeper, if Blackbeard had put even a shred of his usual force behind it. And he wasn’t the type to hold back, even against a woman.

Then she noticed the blood seeping into her skirt where she’d cradled Makino across her knees, and something went very still within her. “Sabo. Her arm.”

The omission of the honorific was telling enough, even as her voice trembled over the words.

And then Sabo was reaching down, to turn Makino’s arm over, and Koala’s breath lodged in her throat.

“She blocked it,” Sabo said, shaking his head, as though he couldn’t believe it. His voice quavered, but this was from anger, Koala heard. “How?” he asked. “Did he let her?”

She didn’t have an answer to give him, fingers hesitating over the cuts in her forearm, so deep they looked like they’d gone almost to the bone. And she was a small woman; the cuts covered most of her arm, four gaping grooves spanning the whole of it, from her wrist to her elbow. The sleeve of her shirt was cut to ribbons, the fabric soaked through with blood. It was clear her arm had taken the brunt of the attack, and she felt inclined to agree with Sabo, confusion pushing through her outrage, through her nausea, but—

_What do you feel?_

The memory came back, of a clear blue day, standing on deck with the sun at her back, warm sea-spray on her skin and the sails above her head expanding with a good wind. Her breath had sat, light and easy in her chest, even as the woman in front of her had been leaning her weight on her knees, trying in vain to catch hers.

 _Feel?_ Makino had asked, voice hoarse with exertion. _Right now I feel like I’m about to throw up._

Koala had smiled, opting for cheer, but it had done little to lift the heavy frown from her companion’s brow. _When I come at you, what do you feel?_

Makino had straightened, visibly wary. _What do you mean?_

_I mean, when I attack you, do you rely on just your eyes, or can you tell where I’m about to come from?_

Her frown had deepened at that, and for a beat, she’d said nothing. Then, _I—don’t know. A little of both, I guess? But that’s just base instinct, isn’t it?_

“You don’t have to be trained in it,” she told Sabo quietly. “Just scared enough.”

He sucked in a breath, and lifted his eyes to look at her. His own realisation sat, bright across his face. “Haki?”

She shook her head; she only had a guess to go on, but, “I thought she might have it,” Koala said. “She didn’t do all that well with attacking—she hesitated too much, but she picked up on blocking quicker than I’d thought she would. Observation haki would explain it.”

She touched her fingers to Makino’s hair, pushing it out of her brow, her own furrowing at the short length. “Did they cut off her hair, too?” she asked. For some reason, a fierce thing of righteous _feeling_ swelled up within her at the thought, clawing up the back of her throat like a shout.

She shoved down the next memory before it could find her fully, of a cold, damp cell, calling for her mother, and hands holding her down, the sharp edge of a razor gleaming and her hair falling in thick clumps around her.

Sabo surged to his feet then, fists slamming against the bars with a shout that ricocheted between the bulkheads of the brig, and Koala bristled, feeling heat pricking at her skin.

“Sabo!” she snapped, her voice hoarse. “Calm _down_.”

He rounded on her. “Are we supposed to just _sit_ here—”

“Yes!” she cut him off, and watched him take a step back. “We don’t have a _choice_.” When his expression didn’t relent, she pushed a frustrated breath past her teeth. There was still a sob sitting at the bottom of her throat, feeling Makino’s weight in her lap, unmoving. “What’s your plan, then?” she asked. “Set the whole ship on fire? Then what? I only have one working hand, I can’t carry you both in the water!”

Sabo spun back to the bars, a harsh, terrible sound rising from his throat, muffled by his teeth. Koala watched him lean his weight on the bars, his breaths heavy, laboured things. It looked like it took effort, composing himself.

She looked down at Makino, still out cold in her arms. The marks on her face sat in vivid relief against her skin, the cuts thin but stark, bright red against her milk-pale pallor. Reaching up, she loosened some of the hair that had gotten stuck in the coagulating blood, and winced when the action met resistance, yielding a fresh flow. She murmured an apology under her breath, smoothing her fingers over her brow, but Makino didn’t stir.

“Sabo,” Koala said then, after a long lull had passed between them. The body in her arms was heavy and unresponsive. And where was Ace? “What do you think he’s planning to do with her?”

Her good hand shook where she’d pressed it over Makino’s cheek to stem the bleeding, and she felt suddenly like slamming the one with the broken fingers into the planks, just to feel something she could control.

Sabo had turned back from the bars, and was looking at Makino now, expression drawn and pensive — and _angry_ , the emotion seeming to sit just under the surface. The temperature in their cell had settled back down, but his eyes burned, and the scar on his face looked livid red, it was pulled so tight across his skin. His hands shook, and Koala watched him curl them into fists.

“I don’t know,” he said, tightly. He sounded breathless, and Koala tightened her grip on Makino as he lifted his eyes to seek hers. They met, an agreement struck without words between them, even as he said,

“But whatever it is, he’ll have to get through me first.”

 

—

 

The newspapers sat on the table before him, all of them laid out, front pages up.

Cigarette clenched between his teeth, Ben continued the now-familiar routine. He read them in sequence, first to last, then in reverse. Then he picked each article out individually, focused his thoughts on key words, on potential patters, to turn them over in his head. He was a good strategist — a damn good one, and he’d played similar games for years, puzzling out ambitions, and answers from clues.

They stared up at him now, but it wasn’t answers he found in them, only more questions, and a nagging sense that he was missing something. He’d felt it for weeks, like something had slipped him by — a single, small fish in a wide net, gone so fast he wasn’t sure if there’d even been anything to miss, but it still lingered, the sense that there was something he wasn’t seeing.

_Blackbeard._

_Dawn Island._

_Revolutionary Army._

And then, the most recent — an island in the New World, and a rampage that had left a thriving port-town in shambles. And Blackbeard was unpredictable, but there had always been a pattern to his madness, and his particular brand of chaos; a cunning that ran deep, that planned and schemed in the dark, before it saw the light of day. Blackbeard’s actions always had a _reason._

But this seemed less like controlled chaos than a string of completely unrelated events. And what Dragon could have done to incite that kind of backlash…

The door opened, but he didn’t raise his eyes from the article, already recognising who it was from the footsteps. If it had been Shanks, Ben would have put the papers away, the reminder unnecessary, unkind, but their captain was in his quarters, where he’d taken to staying. A small allowance, Ben conceded, for a man who’d just recently managed to get himself out of bed.

Yasopp’s sigh reached him before his voice did, “Are you still beating yourself up over this?”

Ben didn’t look up from the newspapers, eyes searching the grainy pictures, the lines of text, as though any minute, one of them would yield something of note; that crucial, missing piece.

One page had a dried ring of moisture on it, as though from a glass, the letters bleeding ink, but he knew the contents of the article by heart.

Yasopp came to stand beside him, looking down at the papers. A heavy frown sat between his brows. “How many times have you gone over them now?”

Removing his cigarette, his exhale carried more than smoke, but there was no relief in the release. “Not enough.”

Yasopp’s mouth pressed to a thin line. “Ben.”

Ben ignored him, eyes fixed on the first newspaper, the one that had started it all. In the picture, Dawn Island looked back, a cloud of black smoke obscuring the place where Fuschia Port should have been. “I’m missing something.”

“Ben,” Yasopp persisted. “Why are you doing this to yourself?”

Ben didn’t look at him. Somehow, it seemed a kinder alternative, looking at the articles. Or maybe not _kinder_ , but fitting. A just punishment, for what he’d let happen.

“I got careless,” Ben said, after a lull. The words sat, like weights on his tongue. A private grief he hadn’t shared — couldn’t, because their captain had enough to endure without taking Ben’s failures into account. And he had failed; as a friend, as a first mate. As a godfather.

“She asked me,” he told Yasopp then, remembering; the determined press of her mouth, and the eyes that could ask the world of a man. “Before we left, she asked me to make sure he got out of this alive. I promised her I would.” He paused. The guilt burned, a bitter taste. “I told her to be careful.”

She probably had been, he thought. Ignorant of so many things pertaining to their world, but she’d never been naive. He knew Shanks had told her what there was to tell, but when they’d married, she’d come to Ben — had told him to tell her the things _he_ knew, every last detail, no matter how ugly. She’d always been fiercely practical in everything, and she’d wanted to know what they were up against, even if it didn’t directly involve her.

And then one day it did. And he’d told her to be _careful._ Empty words, when she could have been as careful as anyone could be. A single moment had been all it took, in the end. The dearest thing in his captain’s life, and Ben had failed them both.

“We should have relocated them earlier,” Ben said, thinking of Blackbeard’s call, all those weeks ago; that gloating laugh, and the quiet threat in it. He wondered for a moment where Rayleigh was, but dismissed the thought; if he could provide them with answers, he would have done so already.

Then, and with a conviction that hurt, when it forced itself up his throat, “We should have taken them with us from the start.”

They would have been safe, on the ship. It was no place for a baby, but they would have been _safe —_  would have still been alive, and their captain, too, instead of the man who remained, driven by nothing but a body’s base needs to sleep and eat, and a single-minded duty that weighed heavier than ever.

“Ben,” Yasopp said, quietly. “No one could have predicted this. Not even you.”

Ben said nothing, opting for silence rather than the answer he knew Yasopp would disagree with. But it didn’t matter than he disagreed, because he was wrong; Ben could have predicted this —  _should_ have, knowing what had been at stake. And they’d been careful, but an Emperor’s ship would have raised brows, even in such a remote corner of the East Blue. If Blackbeard had been tracking their movements, it wouldn’t have taken more than a hunch for him to investigate further.

And that was on them — was on _Ben_ , who’d always kept them abreast of the goings-on in the New World, and who’d known since Marineford that Blackbeard would be looking for a way to tip the scales. He’d felt it, stepping off the Fuschia docks that last time, the unease that had boarded the ship with them, but in weighing their options, he’d chosen what he’d thought had been best — had told Shanks as much, when he’d asked.

He’d always trusted Ben’s advice, but with his wife and child in Ben’s hands, and the advice he’d given had proved a fatal mistake.

He’d thought that if anywhere was safe, it was the East Blue. They’d known they would be facing Blackbeard; the thought of taking Makino with them, to uproot her from the only life she’d ever known and bring her to a sea that was anything but safe, with a baby less than three months old, hadn’t seemed the _logical_ choice.

And that was where he’d failed, because logic and reason were weapons on a sea that defied them, but they had little to do with matters of the heart. And they had been that, the two of them. There was little of logic in a ten-year separation — was little of reason in the choice she’d made, to marry their captain, despite all the risks. She’d been all heart.

 _The only way she would have been entirely safe is if you hadn’t gone back and married her,_ he’d told Shanks. _Are you saying you regret that, too?_

Ben thought of his own regrets, laid out before him with paper and ink.

No. If regrets were to be counted, it wasn’t for going back to her, but for how they’d failed her when they’d left. And they had _failed_ her, Ben more than anyone else.

He thought of her then — of that quiet, surprisingly dry humour. The stubborn heart that had waited ten years, and that had loved them all, every wanted soul on their ship. He remembered quiet mornings, an empty bar suffused with sunlight and a newspaper on the table between them; remembered the little boy who hadn’t even been a year old, who’d slept in his arms the day he’d been born, and the acute, almost wry realisation that his fate had been irrevocably sealed.

 _We were hoping you would be the godfather,_ Makino had told him, back when her stomach had still been rounding under her palms.

Ben had looked at her; her hands splayed over the curve of it, and that too-clever smile sitting on her mouth. _A mutual agreement?_

 _I don’t think he’ll mind that I asked on his behalf,_ she'd said.

_You underestimate his capacity for petulance._

_I think I estimate it just right._

_He’ll have something to say about it._

_He always has something to say about everything._

_A godfather should be present,_ he’d countered, grinning. _I was looking forward to a few years of peace when he retires._

_So that’s a yes, then?_

It wasn’t just about friendship, when you were part of a family. And she’d never treated him as anything less than that.

“I’m going to check on Boss,” Yasopp said then, drawing Ben’s thoughts back, from that quiet morning, and his godson kicking. “Make sure he’s had something to eat today.” A sigh, heavy enough for the both of them. “He’s not even drinking. Don’t know which is more upsetting.”

It was a starved attempt at salvaging something of their old ease, but it fell awkwardly between them, like everything felt a little awkward, the whole ship a little off kilter; as though they all still remembered how to sail, but had forgotten why they did it, and kept going by force of habit alone.

And everything settled into routines if you repeated it enough times, Ben knew, and most of them carried sailing in their bones, in their muscles and their saltwater blood, but this— _living—_ couldn’t keep on in the same way. Living wasn’t routine; routine was existing, but that was hardly a life.

He heard Yasopp leaving, following the rhythm of his receding footsteps, before the door opened and shut behind him. But the quiet that reigned in his absence didn’t bring peace of mind, not on a ship that had never once been _quiet_ , not in the nearly twenty years Ben had been part of its crew.

His hand lashing out, the chair beside him clattered loudly to the planks, the sound seeming to startle the quiet into relenting, and for a single second it felt _good_ , like he could breathe again, the relief so sharp it hurt.

But then the quiet settled back down, shaking itself off and getting comfortable again, leaving him standing by the table, the chair on its back, and for a moment Ben just stared at it, as though he couldn’t remember how it had gotten there.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he expelled a breath. The cigarette sat, cold between his fingers now, but he didn’t have the strength to light another one.

He looked at the newspapers again, gaze lingering on the most recent edition, and the smoking remains of that nameless, broken town. No answers but charred ruins, and nothing but failure, piling up, one atop of the other. It felt like they’d lost a battle they hadn’t even fought yet.

But maybe there was some truth in that. Because even if they defeated Blackbeard, they would have little to show for their victory than a sea that would settle once again, like it always did, and two graves that would still be there, when all was said and done.

_Ben. How do you go on living?_

If there was an answer to that question, Ben didn’t think a lifetime of searching would yield it.

 

—

 

Only half of the town was left.

“Guess that clears any doubt about whether they were here,” Dadan remarked from beside him, gaze thrown out across the scorched buildings lining each side of the street, the mouth of which loomed like a large, gaping maw.

Fire and soot had licked the red wood almost completely black — that was, on the houses still standing. Some were ruined beyond salvaging, rising out of the mud and the snow like empty, charred husks. The smell of smoke still lingered on the air, seeming even sharper than the biting cold, although they seemed to have put out all the fires.

Snow was falling in heavy clumps from a sky so thickly overcast it seemed to weigh down over the island, sleet and ice gathering in the muddy street, the white soaking through with brown before it had even had the chance to settle. Whatever battle had gone down, it was long since over, although the town was shambling on unsteady feet. A single nudge seemed to be all it would take, to tip the fragile peace.

Rayleigh surveyed the destruction with a frown. There was a different atmosphere here than there had been, in that little village on Dawn Island. Death lingered here, and in abundance, clinging to street corners, to windows and doorways; a ripe tang of loss and fear that sat like a palpable stench in the air.

“He is no longer on the island,” Mihawk spoke up, sharp eyes trained on something in the distance, beyond sight. Snow was gathering along the brim of his hat, but he seemed otherwise unperturbed by the cold. “Blackbeard.”

“No,” Rayleigh agreed. From the looks of things, he hadn’t been for some time. The wary but resolute expressions on the faces of those they passed were testaments to that. If Blackbeard’s departure had been recent, there would have been more fear, Rayleigh surmised.

It was difficult to tell from a glance how many days had covered the gap between Blackbeard’s departure and their arrival. They’d set out from Sabaody, following a trail Shakky had laid out, information plucked from a handful of informants, to draw them a tentative map. Dragon’s second-in-command, with a strange woman and her child in tow, booking passage on a merchant ship headed for the New World.

It hadn’t taken a lot of prodding to get hold of the ship’s usual route, the final destination of which was the island they’d disembarked on just a few moments ago — and by the looks of things, a few moments too late.

“If he caught up with them here,” Mihawk said at length, “It is likely that he now has them.”

“A fair assumption,” Rayleigh agreed. It made sense, if the woman who’d been spotted with Sabo the Revolutionary was indeed who they thought, although there were still too many missing pieces to see the whole picture with clarity.

“We should tell him,” Dadan said then, drawing both their gazes. “Red-Hair,” she added. She had her eyes trained on the street up ahead, the wild mass of her hair flaring bright against the frost-white cold, drawing several curious gazes from various passersby.

“I do not think that is wise,” Mihawk countered smoothly.

“Well, I’ve had enough of your _wisdom,_ ” she snapped, and Rayleigh tucked his sigh under his tongue. This was an old debate, and one they’d circled several times over, with a wide sea to cross, and a fragile alliance strung up between them.

“It ain’t right,” Dadan continued, the words directed at both Rayleigh and Mihawk now. “Keeping him in the dark. Not when we _know—_ ”

“What do we know?” Mihawk asked, cutting her off, and with enough calm that she visibly reared back, as though struck. “And what would you tell him? That his wife and child, both presumed dead, are now in the hands of the man who was thought to have killed them?” There was no anger behind the words, just a rational coolness, although Rayleigh doubted it did him any favours, by the way Dadan’s features drew together.

“We do not know,” Mihawk continued, still with that unflappable calm, his breath fogging white from the cold, “if they are even still alive, or if Blackbeard does indeed have them. All we have are speculations, none of which will give him any assurance worth the risk of their giving. Suppositions will not be a kindness.”

Dadan rounded on him, stomping forward with two long strides that ate up the ground, her heavy boots kicking up mud and snow, and, “I would have liked to know!” she snarled, voice flinging out like a whip, but Mihawk didn’t so much as flinch, although several people nearby did, before cutting them a wide berth.

Dadan paid them no heed. “If it was _me_ ,” she added, the rasp of her voice trembling with familiar fury. She’d been quiet since the crossing, compared to how she’d been before they’d reached Sabaody, barking orders at every turn, but if she’d been keeping her thoughts to herself, all of it seemed to come rushing out of her now.

“You’re thinking about your boy,” Rayleigh said calmly, and watched her gaze shoot to his. “Dragon’s second-in-command.”

She flinched at the mention, as though it invoked some long-buried feeling, but, “Yeah,” she said, the hoarse rasp dragging off her tongue. “I would have wanted to know,” she repeated, resolute.

She looked at Mihawk, gaze accusing, and making no point to hide it. “If there’d been a chance that he was alive twelve years ago, or any year after—” She drew a breath, as though for control, before her eyes narrowed in a glare. “I would have wanted to know. Even if all I had were  _suppositions_.”

“And if they are indeed dead?” Mihawk asked, feathers unruffled. Rayleigh had the dry thought to suggest he have a care, before Dadan found it prudent to start plucking them. “What then? He will have to endure the loss a second time.” His words fell, a sharp, decisive cut, not meant to hurt, but to be felt, regardless. There was a hard edge to his voice when he said, “He will not survive it.”

If he’d expected the words to prompt another outburst, it wasn’t what greeted them. Instead, Dadan only looked at him, the tight line of her mouth unyielding, before she asked, quietly, “How many children have you grieved, Hawk-Eyes?”

The words came to settle, between the calm and the cold, wedged like a knife into the teetering peace, but it didn’t shoot cracks. And Mihawk’s face surrendered nothing to Rayleigh’s eyes, but his silence did, although there was little in the way of satisfaction on Dadan’s face, even as she scoffed, and said, “Thought so.”

She turned her gaze on Rayleigh then. “We ask around,” she said, red-rimmed eyes flicking to the street, and the broken houses. “Someone in this frozen hellhole must have seen something. And if they tell us what I think they will,” she continued, hard gaze fleeting to Mihawk, who met it blankly, “we call Red-Hair.”

There was no room for argument in her statement this time, and Mihawk offered none, although Rayleigh doubted the argument was settled as easily as that.

About to suggest they locate someone to inquire about Blackbeard’s attack, he paused, brows knitting and the words stilling on his tongue before he could speak them.

“What is it?” Mihawk asked. Dadan had turned towards them now, expression wary but expectant. But Rayleigh was looking down the street, the way they’d come from the wharf.

The mist creeping in from the black water had yielded little but a dagger’s cut of cold when they stepped off the boat, sharp and wet with the promise of illness for the unmindful, the kind that gathered in the lungs. But now it let slip a riot of colour, as a group of people stepped through the damp grey frost and into the remains of the broken street.

Dadan snorted. “It’ll take more than a circus visiting to cheer this place up,” she drawled, already prepared to dismiss the group and move on, but she stopped when she saw they weren’t moving to follow.

“A coincidence?” Mihawk asked, tone low and dry. Rayleigh resisted the sudden urge to laugh.

“On this sea?”

The figure at the head of the group stopped, seeming arrested by the sight of them. A murmur of unease shivered through the group at his back, but the expression that settled across the face of what was ostensibly their captain wasn’t wrought from wariness, but something akin to what Rayleigh was feeling; a wry inkling of fate’s intervention, although as a boy he'd never been quick to accept it, Rayleigh remembered.

And, “Why do I feel like I’m already regretting this,” Buggy sighed.

 

—

 

The sun bore down over the deck, a ruthless sprawl of undiluted light and a heat that crept into far corners, into your breath and under your skin, the salt-tinged smell of the sea mingling with the sweat of those gathered outside, leaving a ripe tang in the air that was at once familiar and relentless.

Beyond Sunny’s bow, the sea stretched out, the surface lit white under the glare, and she’d shielded her eyes with her hat, retreating under a parasol to escape the merciless onslaught, but there was little relief to be found, even in the shade.

Nami worried the newspaper between her fingers, frown etched deep. Nothing of note in it today; nothing about Blackbeard, or Red-Hair.

She realised with a sinking heart that she was waiting, a near-morbid anticipation seeming to hum under her fingertips, restless and itching for the weight of her feather pen, or pockets to pick, but all she had at hand was the newspaper, and a sense of expectation that curled like nausea in her gut.

But Red-Hair hadn’t moved yet, and every day the nausea worsened, a tightly wound knot, until opening the morning paper felt like begging for relief — to just get it over with, so she could breathe again.

She doubted Luffy was faring any better, but he’d greeted the waiting with pensive silence, which didn’t exactly help the persisting feeling of _wrongness_ that permeated the ship like the heat bleeding from the air, squeezed like juice from an overripe lemon.

He wanted to help, Nami knew, but he’d respected Red-Hair’s decision, and hadn’t given them orders to interfere. But they’d lingered in the vicinity, Sunny idling in surprisingly quiet waters, the days crawling by where little of note occurred. Nothing new where their crew was concerned, but it didn’t alleviate the sense that they were all just waiting for the inevitable.

What they would do then, Nami couldn’t hope to guess, but anything seemed preferable to what they were doing now, which was nothing.

The sound of the galley door opening drew her eyes, and she lifted her gaze from the newspaper, glancing over the rims of her sunglasses to find Robin in the doorway, holding the Den Den Mushi, her expression carefully blank, although her eyes betrayed her outward calm.

Nami had seen that expression before — the one that spoke of a busy mind churning under a quiet surface. “Robin?”

Robin met her eyes, her face revealing none of her thoughts, and, “It’s for you, Captain,” she said, holding the snail out to Luffy, who’d dropped down from the figurehead to make his way over.

Nami watched him reach out to take the receiver, before he paused, one hand hovering over the snail. A single second of hesitation passed, before he curled his fingers around the mouthpiece, an unusual wariness to his movements that made Nami’s heart constrict. The last time they’d had a phone call, it had been Garp, and Luffy’s reluctance now spoke of an expectation of something worse yet.

His voice was even when he spoke, yielding nothing, “This is Luffy.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, _“Monkey-chan,”_ came the voice, and Nami blinked, recognising it; that soft, teasing lilt.

Luffy perked up, seeming to have recognised the endearment, if not the voice speaking it. “Ah—spider lady!”

The Den Den Mushi’s eyes curved, a mimicry of a pleased expression on the other end of the line. Then came Shakky’s voice again, _“I have a message from your father.”_

Luffy blinked. “Eh?” Then, “Ah! Right—I have a dad.”

“Oh jeez,” Nami sighed, fingers pressed to her brow.

“Wait—you know my dad?” Luffy asked.

A humming laugh. _“The whole world knows your father, Monkey-chan,”_ Shakky answered, sounding warmly amused. _“But yes, we’ve been acquainted for some time.”_

If Luffy found anything curious about that declaration, he didn’t find it worth remarking on. “What’s the message?” he asked instead.

There was a pause, the air seeming laden with it. Then,  _“They’re not dead.”_

Luffy frowned. Something in Nami went very still as he said, quietly, “What?”

 _“Your village—Fuschia,”_ came the voice over the line then, and Nami watched as Luffy’s eyes widened, and his breath rushed out, as Shakky repeated the words—

_“They’re not dead.”_

 


	12. checkmate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is a homage to the mothers of One Piece.

Waking _hurt_.

It happened slowly, and by degrees. First a stirring, a shiver of awareness too weak to drag the whole of her out of unconsciousness, and it wasn’t herself Makino found first, but things beyond herself — the ground beneath her, hard and unyielding where it pushed against her back, and the labouring groans from the bowels of a ship, skirting the edge of her hearing.

It felt...it felt like it had that time, she thought; that night after Ace had been born, when she’d woken so disoriented she hadn’t been able to place her whereabouts. The thought sought her through her confusion, although it was slow in reaching her, but she grasped for the small familiarity, if only to have something to hold onto.

But this wasn’t her home, with her soft bed and her husband keeping watch as she slept, although beyond that certainty Makino had no idea where she was.

The pain found her then — first her arm, a hot, hurtful throbbing under her skin that she felt the echo of in her head, in her bones. And then her face, as though in response to the first; a tight pressure on her cheek, seeming to dig into her cheekbone and her jaw. It hurt so much she felt dizzy from it, and she'd clenched her eyes shut before she could even open them fully.

Realisation was slow in following, not a shiver this time but a trickle, dripping through the fog in her mind, but it took effort opening her eyes again, like they’d been glued shut.

Then she was blinking up into a ceiling of metal beams, intersecting in a pattern that seemed for a whole, disorienting second to hold her whole attention. Watching them, it felt like they were pressing down on her, trapping her against the planks.

She was laid out on her back, she realised then, her head cushioned on something soft. Her vision swam when she tried to move, and the sound that pushed past her lips was a small, pained thing.

“She’s awake!”

The voice cut through the confusion, but with difficulty, like she’d been dunked underwater, muffling everything around her, all the sounds and impressions trying to reach her. But she felt the gentle touch against her shoulder, and then there was a shape materialising before her eyes, somewhere above her. _No_ —two shapes, both too blurry for her to make out, but she could see the colour pink—

“Makino-nee?”

It took effort breathing. It took even more effort trying to locate her voice, and when she spoke her tongue felt large in her mouth, and the movement had pain erupting across her right cheek, choking the words before she could speak them.

Fingers touched against her brow, cool on her skin, but, “She’s not running a fever,” came the same voice again — a voice she _knew,_ but she couldn’t seem to summon a face to go with it, the pain making it difficult to even think about anything else.

“Ma-chan,” said another voice, this one a little deeper, and— _Sabo_ , Makino thought, and blinking her eyes found her vision clearing enough to make out the shape of him, and beside him—

“Koala-san...?”

She couldn’t make sense of anything. _Everything_ hurt — breathing, speaking, just lying on her back, and she couldn’t seem to collect her thoughts, or at least not enough to figure out what was going on, or why she was in so much pain. “What—”

Like a blow, it found her — standing in Blackbeard’s quarters, and the blades that had given Shanks his scars, illuminated in the lamplight—

She’d thrown up, Makino remembered, and the memory pushed bile up her throat now, and so violently she’d shoved into a sitting position before either of them could stop her, but the violent heaving yielded nothing but spittle, nothing left in her stomach to empty, and she gasped for air, tears blurring her vision.

Hands on her back, and they were both speaking, their voices loud and rising over each other, then bleeding together, and she couldn’t make out what they were saying. She couldn’t _breathe_ , and panic gripped her, wrapped around her ribcage, seizing her heart, and before she could think she was reaching for her cheek—

She felt small hands grasping her shoulders, and another pair tugging her fingers away, both of them physically holding her down as she shoved back against their attempts, frantic and struggling, and suddenly desperate to touch the source of the pain, a sob trapped in her throat.

“Makino-nee!”

The hands on her shoulders clamped down, hard enough to hurt and with enough force that for a second, she couldn’t move. But before the panic could take over again, Koala’s face appeared before her, expression harder than Makino had ever seen it, and, “ _Breathe_ ,” came the order, none of that cheerful, always-smiling cheek behind it, just a stark simplicity that looked at once out of place on her face, and like it was very comfortable there.

“ _Makino_ ,” Koala said when she didn't comply, no familial honorific tacked onto her name this time. “You have to breathe.”

She tried. It hurt so much she wanted to throw up again, but she managed a large, painful gulp of air, her chest aching from the pressure, before she forced it back out through her nose. Then another, and another, until she was sobbing through her breaths, but Koala’s grip on her shoulders didn’t yield, and when Makino finally sank forward her arms slipped around her back, keeping her upright.

She was still gasping for breath, but the hand on her back pushed down firmly, as though to anchor her in place. She caught a wordless murmur against her ear, the soothing quality of her voice a curious comfort, even more than the strong arms around her, a kinder cage than the panic.

Fully awake, she remembered now — that whole, terrible encounter. She’d never been so afraid in her life, and she felt it still, like it had seized her whole body captive, making it hard to keep breathing, but she forced herself to keep doing it, hiccuping through the effort and the pain, until she was boneless in Koala's arms.

Koala drew back then, seeming to take stock of her. Makino wondered suddenly how she looked, even as part of her recoiled from the thought — the part that felt them keenly, and with every breath; the cuts in her cheek, and the arm cradled in her lap that she could now see was wrapped with bandages from her wrist to her elbow.

“He sent his doctor down,” Koala said, having caught the direction of her gaze, and Makino’s eyes shot up.

“What?” she croaked.

Her mouth firmed. It was then Makino noticed the bandage around the middle fingers of her hand. “He’s a creep,” she said, simply. “But it’s better than bleeding out.”

Makino couldn’t answer — couldn’t seem to find one to offer, staring at her blankly, before dropping her gaze back to her arm. They’d changed her out of her blouse, and she was in nothing but her skirt and the thin silk camisole she’d had on underneath.

The thought struck her, crawled out from some dark and hidden place that she’d never touched; a thought that had never needed _thinking_ , in her safe little port, or with the man she’d married, but that her encounter with Blackbeard had dragged to the surface and into the light, and without mercy.

She almost couldn’t shape the words to speak them. “D-did—”

Koala’s hand tightened on her shoulder, and there was an understanding in her eyes that hurt to look at, Makino thought, but, “No,” she said, firmly. “We were there the whole time he was. He just stitched your cuts and wrapped your arm. Nothing else. I removed your shirt because it was ripped and full of blood, but that was me. No one else touched you.”

She thought the relief might have been a kindness, but all it did was leave her shaking. She felt Koala reaching for her hand, tightening her fingers around it, but she said nothing else.

Sabo had risen to his feet to pace a single, restless circle around their cell, and lifting her eyes, Makino realised she had to be in the brig. It wasn’t a very big holding cell, but it allowed Sabo to pace, standing upright, although there was nothing else but the barest necessities, meaning a bucket in the corner and a pail of water. It had a dense, stuffy smell, but nothing worse than sweat and the odour of people forced to live in cramped quarters.

They’d rolled up Sabo’s coat for her to rest her head on, Makino saw. The thought seemed curiously detached, watching the improvised bedding. How long had she been out this time?

Her next thought slinked at its heels, with less forgiveness. _How long had Ace been without her now?_

“It's been over a day since they brought you down,” Koala said, drawing her attention back from their surroundings, as though she'd caught on to her line of thinking. “You’ve woken a few times before, but you went under again pretty quickly. Blackbeard’s doctor gave you something. I think it was for the pain.”

Makino just stared at her, sitting on her knees before her. She looked a little worse for wear, but didn’t have any visible injuries aside from the bandaged fingers on one of her hands. She was without her hat and goggles, the frilly sleeves and collar of her shirt ripped and the rosy colour matted with grime, but the look in her eyes didn’t spell defeat. Rather the opposite.

Makino couldn’t dredge up the same response, feeling suddenly numb, at least beneath the relentless, throbbing pain in her arm and face.

Her expression softening, “Ace?” Koala asked then, quietly. Two steps away, Sabo stopped his pacing.

Makino drew a breath through her nose. The sudden _ache_ behind her ribs made her other wounds feel like scrapes. “I don’t know,” she said, voice hoarse where she dragged it up to speak the words. The admission wasn’t any easier than it had been, that morning she’d woken on Buggy’s ship, miles away from her baby.

It hit her then, that she’d thought she’d felt far away from him, standing on deck and willing the naked horizon to yield an island, but it didn’t even compare to how she felt now, caged between the bulkheads of Blackbeard’s brig, no horizon in sight. She didn’t even know what time of day it was.

“We need to get off this ship,” Sabo said, the words Makino wanted to say, spoken with the anger she wanted so desperately to _feel_ , but all she could summon for herself was the shred of strength it took to not crumble where she sat.

He’d resumed his restless pacing, and Makino tried following the movement with her eyes, but it felt like it took more strength than she had left to give.

She heard Koala sigh. “Would you sit down?”

Sabo protested, and Koala’s next response was sharper, but Makino didn’t hear what they were saying, having dropped her gaze back to her lap, and the arm cradled there. Her hand shook as she turned it over, tracing the bandages wrapped around her wrist, along her forearm. She remembered how her blouse had been ripped, the delicate sleeve in tatters, and the fabric soaked through with blood.

She didn’t reach to touch her face, even as the impulse still sat in the shaking fingers tucked in her lap. She hadn’t gotten a look at the wounds themselves before she’d passed out, but she remembered touching her cheek, and finding those gaping cuts in her skin.

Panic inched up her throat again, leaving her voice a weak, trembling croak. “Koala—”

The question cut off before she could speak it, but they both looked towards her from where they’d been arguing. Makino felt her fingers trembling in her lap, and fixed her gaze on her wedding ring, on the hand of her uninjured arm. When she raised her eyes to them, her voice didn’t manage to stay even as she asked, quietly, “How—how bad is it?”

Sabo wasn’t quick enough curbing his reaction, and Koala’s mouth pressed together. And the fact that neither of them answered at once was answer enough, Makino found, and her next breath shuddered out, along with a strangled sob.

But, “Okay,” she said, her voice still wavering, but the word firm. She swallowed, and tried to right her shoulders, but it was difficult. Her whole body was shaking. “ _Okay_.”

“Hey,” Koala said then, moving back to kneel before her, and Makino felt her hands on her shoulders again, but her grip gentler now than it had been earlier. “They’ll heal,” she said, the words simple, but shaped from such an unforgiving conviction that for a moment, Makino’s breath caught. “ _Everything_ heals.”

Makino didn’t answer — couldn’t even manage a nod. It felt like she was outside her body, that it wasn’t hers to control, or that it wasn’t _hers._ Looking down at herself, it was as though she recognised some parts, like the shape of her arms, and her hands, the slender fingers and the soft callouses. Her wedding ring, the metal dulled from two years of wear and work. The veins in her wrists and the lines in her palms; the pale freckles on her shoulders.

They were all hers — were familiar, but then there were the bandages, and the short hair at the corner of her vision, falling into her eyes. The still-strange, weightless feeling whenever she turned her head, and couldn’t feel her braid, or the heavy fall of her loose hair down her back. The hem of her skirt was torn, like the fraying lace lining of her camisole. Whose body was this?

She could barely stand the thought of imagining what her face must look like, feeling the painful throb of the cuts in her cheek, under the bandage. But even as she tried, she couldn't help but think about how they would scar, a physical reminder that would remain even after they'd healed, and that would last her a lifetime, if she even lived to see the end of this. If she would still want to, after all was said and done.

She remembered then, Shanks’ scars. She knew them like they were her own, had traced them enough times to know their width, their depth, and how far they spanned, from his brow to his cheek, and along the delicate skin of his eyelid. She knew what they looked like when he smiled, his cheeks lifting them higher; and when he frowned, the sharp slant of his brow tugging at them, pulling them tight across his skin. They were such an integral part of his face, she couldn’t even imagine what he’d looked like without them.

Was that what would happen to her, too? Would she even recognise herself now if she saw her own reflection?

Would Shanks?

She felt suddenly cold, even with the heightened temperature of the brig, which seemed to rise and fall in time with Sabo’s growing agitation. He’d begun pacing again, but Makino was only vaguely aware of the movement, and Koala’s voice seemed to come from far off. It didn't seem real — not the ship or the brig, or her wounds, with their awful symmetry.

But even if it all felt like a horrible dream, she knew that it wasn't, and the weight of that realisation sank onto her shoulders like it had come to stay.

“I didn’t make it,” she murmured, and it took her a moment to realise she’d spoken the words out loud, her voice almost too small to make an impression on the quiet, but Sabo and Koala stopped talking.

Makino wasn’t looking at them, gaze still fixed on the hands in her lap. The bandage around her arm. Her wedding ring. “I came so far,” she said, her voice breaking over the last word. “But it didn’t do any good, did it? Shanks—and Ace, and...and all those _people—_ ”

Sabo was kneeling before her then, and she started, but he didn’t reach out to touch her like Koala had, his hands closed to fists. Makino looked at the burn scar on his face, seeming to notice it fully for the very first time. She’d become so used to it, it had stopped fazing her, but she watched it now, the way it climbed over his eye, his cheekbone, like a permanent flame licking against his skin.

If he noticed where she was looking, Sabo didn’t let on, although Makino thought he did, from the way his features tightened. Although it wasn't from anger, but a fierce weight of conviction.

“We’ll get out of here,” he told her, and she dragged her eyes from the scar to meet his. His expression hadn’t faltered. “Okay? We’ll get off this ship, and we’ll find Ace, and Red-Hair, and we’ll take down Blackbeard. I’ll torch his whole fucking fleet myself.”

She just stared at him, unable to find the voice to respond, or even what to say, but, “Makino,” Sabo said, undeterred by her silence. “I _promise_.”

 _Don’t make promises_ , she wanted to tell him, thinking of the ones she’d made that she’d failed to keep. Protecting her son, who she’d left behind. And Shanks, who she’d left as well; who she hadn’t been able to reach, and who still thought they were both dead. It didn’t matter that it hadn’t been intentional; she’d _failed_ them.

She felt it then, within her — the slightest ripple, like a crack shooting through a polished glass, not breaking it, but leaving a mark. A single chip in the rim, to cut your lip. Even whole, she’d never used cracked glasses for serving, never knowing how little it might take, to shatter it.

It felt like that now, a hairline fracture forking through the surface of her conviction, the one she’d kept within herself, wrapped with steel and held together with all her strength, all her stubbornness, all the way across the sea and under it. It had survived the destruction of her home, and endured all those days of uncertainty aboard Dragon’s ship — had survived that crippling helplessness knowing she could do nothing to change her fate. It had borne the weight of all her fears, escaping the Revolutionaries, escaping Blackbeard, _losing her son_ , but now she felt like she was losing herself, and for all that she'd tried to do, in the end, she’d still failed.

And with her conviction breaking, barely held together, like the fragile stitches keeping the rest of her from coming apart, Makino wondered what it would finally take, to shatter it whole.

The thought was quick in coming, as though it had been waiting, sitting under her broken skin, festering in her wounds while she slept.

 _Shanks_ , she thought, and didn’t know if it was a plea, or an answer to her question.

She feared it was the last.

 

—

 

“What the hell are _you_ doing here?”

The words were hurtled into the cold, and with the same shrill bluster that Rayleigh remembered from a much younger boy. For a moment, the sudden nostalgia left him a little short of breath.

But then — “Buggy,” he laughed, watching as he came to a stop, flanked by his crew and taking in the sight of them with something like wary realisation settling over his features, pulling them into a grimace. It solidified Rayleigh’s earlier assumption, that he was by no means the only one who suspected this encounter was anything but coincidental.

For her part, Dadan gave Buggy a short, decidedly unimpressed once-over, and to Rayleigh, asked, “Who the hell is this clown?”

She got a glare for her troubles, as Buggy levelled a look in her direction, voice dropping to let slip a deadpan, “Oye.”

“What brings you to this island?” Rayleigh asked, before an altercation could break out. The few townspeople out in the streets were still keeping their distance, Dadan’s earlier outburst only just having settled. Of course, he didn’t blame them for being skittish.

Buggy looked back at him, before his gaze shifted behind him, to Mihawk, observing their interaction without speaking. And whatever his own thoughts on the circumstances surrounding their meeting, Mihawk kept them to himself.

“What’s it to you?” Buggy asked then, with a suspicion so bright and so familiar, Rayleigh almost smiled.

“I’m only curious,” Rayleigh said, fixing him with a look that had Buggy flinching, and the smile was almost impossible to hold back now. That look usually meant _get the bucket and scrub the deck_. An old man was allowed his nostalgic vices. “Meetings like this are rarely happenstance.”

The open dismay on Buggy’s face told him he was already aware, but he didn’t seem inclined to provide them with anything that would determine whether or not Rayleigh was correct in his suspicions. Whatever the reason behind his reticence, Rayleigh didn’t know, although he could make a guess. The boy had always had a strong sense of loyalty, for all his griping.

Dadan didn’t seem to think the answer was worth waiting for. “Look,” she told Rayleigh. “I can see there’s some kind of reunion going on here, but I’ve got more important things to do, and taking our sweet time isn’t doing Red-Hair any favours.”

 _That_ caught Buggy’s attention — along with the whole crew behind him, who seemed to react bodily to the mention, and, “O—oi,” Buggy said, before Dadan could turn to walk away. “What did you just say?”

The look she shot him cut with impatience, but Buggy stepped forward. “You—you said Red-Hair.” He looked at Rayleigh next. “You’re here for Shanks?”

“What about it?” Dadan asked, throwing his earlier suspicion right back, although Rayleigh could tell Buggy had her attention now.

He was still looking at Rayleigh, that wary inkling from before hinting at understanding now, as though he’d just made a vital connection. And whatever had been holding his tongue, Rayleigh had the sudden sense the mention of Shanks had made his decision.

And he didn’t know how Buggy figured into everything, but it wasn’t surprise that found him, when he said, “If you’re looking for his wife, you won’t find her here.”

Mihawk’s brows furrowed ever so slightly, and Rayleigh saw Dadan’s eyes go wide, even before Buggy added, with something that drew his expression tight, “Blackbeard has her.”

A moment of complete silence followed the remark, the whole island seeming muffled by the snow drifting down around them, and the weight of the charcoal sky.

Then Dadan was striding forward, and before he could even squeak out a protest she’d hoisted Buggy up by the front of his shirt, his feet lifted clean off the ground. Her voice was strung tight with fury, and an urgency that didn’t allow for even a breath of protest, even as Buggy’s crew let loose a clamour of surprised exclamations, but, “You better start talking, clown,” she said, the sharp tremor of the demand making Buggy shrink in her grip, but she only tightened her hold on his shirt. “Now.”

Despite her manhandling, Buggy still looked ready to protest, but Dadan gave him a shake, startling loose a choked shout instead that was swallowed by her own order. “ _Now!_ ”

The look Buggy threw in Rayleigh’s direction asked for assistance, but he only observed the spectacle, brows raised, as though to say _what do you want me to do?_

Dadan looked ready to shake him again, when Buggy shrieked, “ _Okay_! Okay, I’ll talk! Would you put me down?!” When her glare still didn’t budge, he grumbled under his breath, but she put him back on his feet, although she kept his shirt gripped in her fist.

They were all looking at him now, and the cut of his expression spoke of anger, Rayleigh saw — and regret, even as it was a hard regret. But even if he didn't look pleased with the demand as it had been issued, Buggy told them — of the woman they’d brought with them, not knowing she’d left her son behind. His reluctant agreement to take her back at her insistence (at which point he shot Dadan a hard, dry look), and Blackbeard’s arrival before they could reach the island. The bargain she’d struck, for the lives of his crew.

By the time he was finished, Dadan looked wrought, although Rayleigh couldn’t tell if it was from hope or something else entirely. The crew at Buggy’s back was quiet, their expressions drawn with guilt.

Buggy’s own expression was unyielding, although in Rayleigh’s years of experience with that easily-ignited, explosive temper, that itself was telling enough.

“So he’s still here?” Dadan asked, voice even hoarser than usual. She’d released Buggy’s shirt, but was clenching and unclenching her hands, as though desperate to give them something to do. “Somewhere on the island?”

Buggy kept a careful distance, as though half expecting her to lift him up and shake him again. “If he’s alive,” he said, with a fleeting glance at the town sprawling at their backs. What was left of it.

The snow had thickened, making it hard to see beyond where they were standing. They still had a few hours of daylight left, but with the sky so heavily overcast, it was already getting dark. Those with homes still fit to live in had begun lighting lanterns in the windows, marking a twisting path through the gathering snow.

“She said there was an inn,” Buggy said then, drawing their attentions. Dadan’s reaction seemed almost visceral at the mention of Makino.

Mihawk let slip a soft snort at that, before offering his first remark since Buggy’s arrival, “You can hardly toss a stone without hitting one in a town such as this.”

“Hey, I’m just telling you what I know,” Buggy snapped, irritation sparking along the words. “I don’t even know why I’m here!”

“No?” Rayleigh asked, and Buggy’s head swivelled back to look at him. But whatever protest he might have had ready to counter that, he didn’t offer it, only muttered something under his breath.

“In any case, we should begin searching before nightfall,” Rayleigh said. “Time appears to be of the essence. But we know now what we’re looking for.”

Mihawk made a sound that could almost be called agreement. “The boy had the unfortunate fate of inheriting his father’s hair. There, at least, we are at an advantage.”

“So, what?” Buggy asked. “We just begin knocking on doors? ‘Hey, have you seen a brat with red hair?’ That could take us days!”

Dadan took a step forward, making him scramble back, but she didn’t reach for him this time, only said, “I’ll overturn every damn stone on this frigid rock if that’s what it takes. So either you pick up your feet and start knocking, or you can stand here twiddling your thumbs until the snow covers your frozen corpse.”

Then she’d turned away, making for the first shambling row of houses without another word. A beat passed before Rayleigh heard Buggy expel a breath.

“I’ve learned not to interfere with mothers,” Rayleigh told him, watching Dadan striding off into the snow with enough purpose in her step that he was almost inclined to believe she’d been literal when she’d said she was about to start turning over stones.

“Yeah,” Buggy snorted, with a wry weight of feeling that spoke of a keen understanding, before moving to follow suit.

“That makes two of us.”

 

—

 

Pym watched the snow drifting down beyond the frosted glass, the dark surface throwing her reflection back, along with the worry on her face. Nightfall was always a quiet affair, even in their busy town; with all the snow, there were few who braved the elements once the dark crept down from the mountains, and the sun they rarely saw sank beyond the black sea. It was always cold, but after nightfall, the only ones who ventured outside were those with ill intent in mind, or those who’d drunk enough not to feel the chill.

Those in the latter category were usually found in the morning, either the victims of the first, or the cold. Her mother had always said their island had a hard, ruthless heart, and little sympathy for those who didn’t know to fear it.

The same could probably be said about the man who’d left their island in ruins, Pym thought, and the dark outside the window seemed suddenly all the darker, as though the thought had invoked more than just that awful memory.

There wasn’t much room under the rafters in the loft where they’d been tucked away, but Pym wasn’t very tall, and didn’t mind that it was a little cramped. It was warm and cosy, the heat from the coal oven burning below rising up under the floor, and they’d covered the planks with wool blankets and furs, and pinned them to the slats in the ceiling.

The baby was asleep, snug in the basket they’d dug out for lack of anything better. Exhausted from his earlier crying, Pym watched him now, sleeping in earnest, his little arms and legs sprawled and his hair fanned out.

It was very red, she thought. His mother’s hadn’t been; she remembered that long, dark braid. She’d been beautiful, the kind that made you pause. Fair skin and dark eyes, Pym’s first thought had been the fey queen from one of the local fairy tales, the one she’d always loved as a child, where the lonely king of the sea had hewn a wife from the ice, who’d had the winter in her white skin, and the black water in her eyes. But his wife had feared the sea, and had settled on land, shaping herself a home from the cold, without her husband. The story didn’t have a happy ending, but Pym’s mother had always said it depended on how you looked at it.

 _They found a way,_ she’d used to say. _You know where the shore meets the sea, the ice that gathers there? That’s where she’d dip her feet in._

 _Just her feet?_ Pym had asked, with a young child’s stark practicality, although she’d shuddered at the thought of the frozen water. _Why didn’t she go all the way in?_

 _It’s called a compromise, sweetheart,_ her mother had laughed. _The king would meet her halfway._

_That doesn’t sound very romantic, mama._

Her mother had shrugged. _Maybe you’ll feel differently when you’re older. Not everyone marries someone they can be with forever._

_But that’s so sad!_

Pym looked at the baby again, remembering his mother, so beautiful, and yet so terribly sad, who’d touched his cheek and said, the words like a dearly kept secret —  _he likes sea shanties._

Then she’d walked out with her brother, shortly before Blackbeard had attacked, and Pym hadn’t seen either of them since.

She remembered that day only in flashes — the baby in her arms, and her mother urging her to run, the snow melting around her boots and the air outside burning hot like an oven. She’d never felt anything like it, and it had been hard to breathe, and difficult to run with the soggy ground, but her mother hadn’t faltered once, even with the screaming around them, and the whole island heaving under their feet.

The sky had bled completely black, she remembered, but it hadn’t been the kind of darkness that looked back at her from the window now. It had been darker than that — a dark so black it hadn’t just eaten up the light, but the air, too. The buildings and the people in them.

They’d run until she’d been ready to throw up, but her mother hadn’t let them stop, and she’d lost track of how far they’d gone, but it had to have been halfway across the island. She didn’t know what had happened to their inn, but her mother’s pensive silence had said enough. Pym hadn’t asked.

The baby made a small noise, a distressed little coo, but didn’t stir from his sleep. She tucked the blankets a little closer around him, hoping he wouldn’t wake. He’d been crying for his mother, and was too young to understand what was happening. But even if he hadn’t been, Pym didn’t know what she would have told him. She had no idea what had happened to his family.

She had a guess — had read it on her mother’s grim expression, the day after Blackbeard’s rampage. There had been many casualties, and not all of them had been accounted for yet. Two strangers might easily slip into the lists of the forgotten, with no one to claim them. Her mother had been inquiring, Pym knew, but whatever she’d discovered, she hadn’t shared it.

She remembered the night after the attack, huddled in the cramped living quarters of a house that wasn’t theirs, with a whole group of people who had no homes to return to. The baby had been crying, and it had been cold, so her mother had boiled water for Pym to give him a bath.

She remembered how her mother had looked at him when they’d taken off the wooly hat, the bright red hair that was nothing like his mother’s or his uncle’s, something strange in her expression, but when Pym had asked, she’d brushed it off. But Pym had heard her talking with someone that night while she’d lain in the loft, feigning sleep. Her voice had been low, the words urgent.

_What would an Emperor want on this island?_

She’d brought it up the next morning, a cold breakfast and too-hot coffee burning in her stomach, and her thoughts on the baby who’d spent the night crying for his mother.

 _What about his father?_ she’d asked, when her mother had told her there’d been no word on the two strangers. _Maybe if we got word out—_

Her mother had cut her off before she'd even finished making the suggestion, and she’d firmly but kindly been instructed not to say anything; not about the baby in their keeping, or his family.

“You’re a strange little boy,” Pym murmured, watching him sleeping, his red hair bright against the white wool of the blankets. “Where were you headed?”

She wondered what they’d do, if they never found his mother or his uncle; or if they found them among the dead that were still being counted.

A knock on the front door had her jumping, and she looked to the ladder climbing down from the loft as the murmurs in the room below stopped, before the sound of muffled footsteps moved towards the door.

With a last glance at the sleeping baby, Pym shuffled forward on her knees, until she could glimpse the room downstairs through the hatch. Her mother had been the one to rise to open the door, and curiosity plucked at her attention, wondering who could possibly be outside at this hour.

The heavy latch loosened, the door was opened an inch, but it was enough to invite the chill from outside, an unforgiving kiss of cold that made the hairs on her arms rise, even hidden away in the loft as she was. The wind seemed to be picking up, sighing a lament through the open crack in the door where her mother held it ajar, and flurries of snow were tossed inside.

Through the hatch, she spied a man in the doorway, bundled up. Behind him, she thought she could see several more shapes, but from her vantage point and with the pressing dark and the half-open door, it was difficult to determine how many.

“I’ve got someone here,” Pym heard him say, the words muffled behind the scarf wrapped around his neck and the bottom half of his face. “They’ve been asking about those visitors of yours. The ones who left the wee one.”

She perked up at the mention, and watched as her mother craned her neck to look behind him, but before she could respond, the door was ripped open, a gust of wind and snow shoved inside, along with a large shape shouldering past the man in the doorway, and Pym watched her mother take a step back in surprise.

It was a woman, she saw then — tall and robust, and with a mass of bright copper hair that spilled over her broad shoulders, the colour catching in the lamplight. She was dressed warmly, although not as much as she should be, given the hour, and her nose was bright red from the cold, sitting below a pair of sharp eyes that swept with purpose across the cramped little room she’d stepped into.

She turned to her mother then. “It’s too damn cold to be standing on your doorstep,” she said, in a gruff, smoky voice. It wasn’t unkindly said, although she didn’t sound very regretful about intruding.

Inclining her head, she snapped to someone behind her, “Get your asses in here before I shut the door and leave you all to freeze!”

Pym saw that her mother looked ready to protest, but once again she wasn’t given the chance, as three more people stepped inside. And she watched, enraptured, as they came to a stop beyond the door, which was shut and latched closed behind them, cutting off the mourning howls of the wind. There was a heap of snow melting at their feet, seeping into the thick carpet.

There were four men altogether. The first Pym recognised as the one who’d knocked on the door, but the other three…

The one who caught her attention first was an older man, silver hair spilling out from the wool-lined hood of his coat as he pulled it back to reveal his face, the light from the room’s only lamp glinting off the round glasses on his nose. And he was arguably the most normal-looking out of all three. The man on his right loomed, still as a shadow and just as dark. He had an enormous sword strapped to his back, Pym saw, the hilt so long the pommel nearly hit the ceiling, and for a second, the sight stole her whole attention.

Then he lifted his eyes, as though he’d sensed her looking, and she flinched back at the sight of them; a bright, unnatural gold, and sharp like a hawk’s.

But a second later he’d released her, and didn’t alert the room to her spying. Pym felt her heart hammering against her breastbone, like something had physically seized her along with that gaze.

Forcing her breath through her nose, she turned her own gaze back to the last man who’d come inside, looking about the room with open suspicion on his face. He was dressed in bright colours; a long, fur-trimmed coat as red as his nose, and his long blue hair was pulled back, a flamboyant captain’s hat perched on his head that seemed more for dramatic effect than to ward off the cold.

Looking at the four of them, Pym couldn’t for the life of her guess what their relation was. _A pirate crew?_

“That little one he mentioned,” the woman said then, addressing her mother again. “They said—do you have a boy with you?” She cast her eyes around the room, as though looking for him. “Not a year old, yet? They told us you did.”

Her mother hadn’t spoken, but Pym saw her surveying the group now. With her back turned, she couldn’t see the look she shot the man who’d brought them, but from the way he flinched away from it, suspected it was reproachful. But then Pym had been told not to open her mouth. Someone had been blabbing.

“Who are you to him?” her mother asked then.

The strange woman’s eyes turned back from where they’d been surveying the room, her brows pulling together sharply, as though she’d heard an accusation in the question. “I’m his godmother,” she said.

She was a good head and more taller than her mother, Pym saw, their difference in size intimidating enough without the woman’s ravaged expression. But her mother didn’t so much as flinch, her arms crossed over her chest now, and Pym knew that stance, and knew that there was no budging her once she’d gotten comfortable in it.

“Godmother,” she said, and with another look at the men at her back. “You’re not from this town.”

The woman glared. “No.”

“Where did you come from?”

The look she got for her open suspicion was hard, but then her whole face looked hard, Pym thought. “East Blue,” she said at length.

Pym blinked, and found her surprise echoed in her mother’s voice, “ _East Blue?_ ”

The woman looked ready to challenge the implicit disbelief when the old man with the round glasses stepped forward, a disarming smile offered, even before he said, warmly, “We’ve come a long way, but however improbable it seems, she’s telling the truth.”

He had a kind voice, Pym thought. The copper-haired woman had bristled at the interruption, but her mother was looking at him now. Pym saw that her shoulders had slackened a bit from their rigid clench. Not trust, because an innkeeper knew better than to take everything at face value, but her mother had always been a good judge of character.

“This isn’t a remote village,” she said then, head inclined to the woman. “We keep abreast of what goes on in the world. And I might not involve myself in politics, but I read the paper, same as everyone.” She looked between them. “That little boy...I don’t know who his mother is, but I’m fairly certain the man who tried to pass himself off as her brother is the Chief of Staff of the Revolutionary Army.”

Pym’s eyes went wide, even before her mother turned to the two men who’d been conspicuously silent. “And _you_ ,” she said. “Government Warlords? You’ll have to excuse me if that doesn’t add up.”

Her voice was hard, her distrust evident and unapologetic, but the old man was smiling. Not a mocking smile, but one that held amusement, nonetheless.

“Your discretion does you credit,” he told her. “Not everyone would go to this length for strangers. Especially with the incentive of Government Warlords.”

Her mother looked at him, and for a long time, she didn’t speak. Pym wondered what she was thinking, but then, “I don’t know why they were here, or where they were headed,” she said. “It doesn’t matter to me, like it doesn’t matter if they’re with the Government or against it. The navy has few thoughts and resources to spare islands in this part of the world. The past few days have demonstrated that well enough.”

She paused then, before adding, “You said you came from East Blue. Does this have anything to do with that village that was in the papers, a few weeks back?”

The old man's smile hardened. “The events are related. That said, it’s something of a complicated puzzle.”

Pym saw her mother nodding, as though to herself. “And Blackbeard,” she said then. “Coming here, and their disappearance. That wasn’t a coincidence, was it?”

Eyes wide, Pym was almost afraid to breathe, watching the strange scene unfolding. What kind of information had her mother been sitting on?

“No,” the old man said, simply.

Another nod, sharp and decisive. “I thought as much.”

The other man, the one with the red nose and the captain’s hat, let loose a sharp breath. “This is taking too long,” he said, impatience as bright in the words as it was on his face. “Do you have the kid or not?”

Pym watched as her mother turned her gaze on him. “If I did, what makes you think I would just hand him over to a group of strangers?”

“His name,” the woman said, biting the words off, “is _Ace_.”

“So you say,” her mother retorted smoothly. “But I have no proof of that.”

The name had something clicking into place in Pym’s head, recognition sparking with a sudden, startled breath, and, “She’s telling the truth!” she’d blurted before she could stop herself, drawing all the eyes in the room to the hatch, and the ladder where she’d scrambled down it.

“I heard him say it,” she added quietly, suddenly self-conscious under all those gazes. “Makino-san’s, er, brother.”

Her mother’s brows furrowed, and for a moment she seemed inclined to let her shameless eavesdropping go. At least for now. “Makino?” she asked. “That wasn’t the name she gave me.”

Pym fiddled with the hem of her shirt. Everyone was looking at her now. “I know,” she said. There was disapproval on her mother’s face, no doubt at her declaration that she’d been eavesdropping on more than one conversation that hadn’t been meant for her ears.

Before her mother could speak, the copper-haired woman had stepped past her, unconcerned by the reactions of the other people in the room, who’d kept to the far sides since their arrival, but whose voices rose in protest now, noticing her intent.

She towered as tall as the ceiling, and Pym had to crane her neck to look at her as she came to a stop before her. “He’s here?” she asked. Her voice was still that hoarse rasp, but she wasn’t angry now. Instead her expression revealed something else, an emotion etched as deep as the lines in her face, marking the press of her brow and the sharp downturn of her full mouth.

It was the same emotion, Pym thought. The one that had been on her face — Ace’s mother, who’d been so beautiful, and so sad.

She nodded. “I’ll get him,” she said simply.

She felt her mother’s eyes on her back as she turned, but didn’t allow herself to falter as she scaled the ladder back to the loft, before lifting herself up through the hatch. She heard the murmurs of the people in the room below as she crept across the furs and blankets to the basket. The baby hadn’t woken, but stirred when she reached out to touch his cheek, and when she bundled him into her arms, rested his head against her shoulder without protest.

And maybe she’d be scolded later for acting out of turn, or for placing her trust where she shouldn’t, but she thought about Ace’s mother, who’d trusted them with her son when she could have refused. And when she climbed back down the ladder, the baby coming awake and murmuring against her shoulder, the expression that took over the woman’s face at the sight of him assured her she’d been right to follow her gut, the deep lines of her hard frown lifting, and her harrowed features wavering with something that was at once relief and joy and grief all at once.

And she knew nothing about Warlords or revolutionaries, but a mother’s love, Pym knew, because her own mother had showed her just what kind of lengths a heart would go to for her child.

Like the long sea of distance, all the way from East Blue.

 

—

 

As it turned out, finding the kid had been easier than he’d thought it would be.

The baby cooed, and made another grab for his hair. Buggy tried to keep it out of his reach, but the little fingers had already claimed a handful. “Hey!”

He got a laugh for that, a bright, bubbly sound that was far too cheeky to have come from anyone but the man who’d sired him, but he kept his protests to a grumble, and acquiesced with a dry, surrendering thought, that the laugh might be Shanks’, but those far too compelling eyes grinning up at him belonged to the mother.

“Fine,” he muttered, as the baby gave an experimental tug, followed by a delighted little shriek. “Help yourself.”

The boy seemed all too happy with the arrangement. He’d started fussing after the girl had brought him down earlier, seeming as unhappy with the situation as Buggy was, and even his godmother holding him hadn’t managed to soothe the tears that had gathered in his lashes, or the first beginnings of an ear-piercing wail that had had Buggy considering the cold outside the better alternative.

But then he’d quieted, the hiccuping sobs cut short, and to everyone’s surprise, had reached his arms out to _Buggy_ of all people, seeming to have selected a favourite, in a room full of mostly strangers.

Well, not to Buggy, exactly — to his hair.

“Don’t,” he said to Rayleigh, observing him with a smile that looked far too amused. “Just...don’t.”

Eyes twinkling, Rayleigh offered no comment, although his silence wasn’t exactly any better, with that look on his face.

The weather too cold to contend with, they’d been offered lodgings for the night, although Buggy spared a passing lament to the thought of his quarters at the ship, where he'd left his crew, which, although maybe not warmer, were at least private, and that was more than could be said for their current accommodations. The house they’d tracked down was a single cramped room with a low ceiling and a loft, furs and blankets covering every bare plank, and a large oven keeping the cold from reaching through the walls.

Of course, the room had already been crowded when they’d arrived, and even four extra people seemed too much, in a space that barely allowed half of them to stand up straight.

Hawk-Eyes seemed wholly at ease, although with that unreadable face it was hard to say if that was actually the case, or if he was just really good at hiding his annoyance.

The woman who seemed to be in charge was observing them warily, seeming to have relented in her earlier distrust, although the tense stand-off with Dadan persisted where the two women sat, staring each other down from across the short length of the room.

Buggy ignored them, and turned his attention to the baby instead, now busy chewing on his hair.

“Ace, huh?” he murmured, the name familiar on his tongue, even if it had been years since he’d spoken it last. And he thought he should have felt at least some measure of surprise upon hearing what Shanks had opted to name his son, but when he looked, found rather the opposite to be the case.

He thought of Marineford, and the young man who hadn’t stepped off that battlefield, who’d eaten and laughed and celebrated with them only a few weeks before, and who’d been so eerily familiar, but Buggy hadn't been able to place the resemblance. Not until it had been too late.

Now he was holding the kid who’d been named after him —  _Shanks_ ’ kid, who Buggy had somehow been coerced into going back for, despite being vastly better off staying as far away as possible from the cluster-fuck that was slowly coming together, as the different pieces fell into place. He didn’t even know when his own fate had been sealed, and was loath to even call it that, even as he could practically hear Captain Roger laughing, and declaring it a fact.

Buggy tried not to think about what fate his old captain had met, in the end. The same fate that had met his son.

A glance at the baby on his arm, that ridiculous red hair curling under his ears and a good portion of Buggy’s own hair shoved in his mouth, he wondered if that was the fate that would meet Shanks, if Blackbeard had his way.

Munching on a mouthful, the baby gave a gurgling laugh, and seemed wholly unperturbed by Buggy’s grave expression.

“He bears a strong resemblance,” Rayleigh said, drawing his thoughts away from execution platforms and battlefields, and Buggy snorted.

“You don’t have to tell me.”

He looked at the baby again. A cheeky, partially toothless grin stretched around the fistful of hair he still had shoved in his mouth, and Buggy returned it with an enduring look, even as his gaze lingered on the dark eyes that had last looked back at him from the deck of his ship.

“You said she gave herself up,” Dadan spoke up then, and Buggy glanced up to find her watching him. The woman seated across from her was doing the same, but interest had sparked in her eyes at the mention, smoothing out some of the suspicion still left on her face.

Buggy didn’t look at the kid chewing on his hair, the tight knot of what felt distinctly like _guilt_ coiling itself even tighter in his gut. “Yeah.”

“That means Blackbeard wanted her alive,” Dadan said, and to Mihawk, “Like you thought.”

Hawk-Eyes had his gaze fixed on some indeterminable point across the room, but the slight incline of his head conveyed agreement. “He would seek to strike a bargain,” he said. “He would not risk his fleet in a confrontation with Red-Hair. Not this early in the game.”

Rayleigh nodded. “A likely theory. Kaidou has the greater force, and Blackbeard is shrewd. He will have thought ahead.”

“So all we have to do is get her off his ship,” Dadan said, arms crossed, and Buggy curbed the impulse to blurt ‘oh is that _all?_ ’ “We’ve already got Ace,” she continued. “Take away his main bargaining chip, what does he have left?”

“One of the strongest fleets in the New World?” Buggy deadpanned, just as the baby blew a raspberry, before shoving more of his hair in his mouth.

Dadan just looked at him, expression unimpressed and unyielding. “Your point? Red-Hair’s no pushover. And he’s been ruling this sea longer.”

“Blackbeard has two devil fruits,” Buggy pointed out.

She snorted. “Great. Another overcompensating man. Just what the world needs.”

“But he is a man like any other,” Mihawk supplied smoothly, breezing right past her remark, although the dry look on his face didn’t suggest disagreement. “Multiple devil fruits notwithstanding, when cut, he will bleed and die like any mortal.”

“Speak for yourself,” Buggy said. “You saw what he did to Marineford. I’m not gonna try to cut him.”

“ _You_ won’t have to,” Dadan said, and Buggy might have found some comfort in that assurance, if it hadn’t been for the suddenly determined look on her face.

“So what’s our plan, then?” he blurted, before he could think the better of it — or stop to think just what it meant, the casual use of _our_ , as though he wasn’t already in neck-deep with these people.

Dadan turned to Rayleigh. “You have Red-Hair’s number,” she said. Then to the woman who’d let them in earlier, “Do you have a Den Den Mushi?”

She was observing them, still a little warily, although she seemed to have decided to trust them — or if not them, then at least that their intentions regarding the kid were good. Buggy had noticed that she hadn’t seemed surprised to learn about the boy’s parentage, but she’d made no comment on it.

The girl who’d brought the boy down from the loft earlier sat huddled by the oven, making an entirely unconvincing show of not listening to what they were saying.

“Not here,” the woman said at length. “But I know someone nearby who does. Although you won’t have reception for a long-distance call in this weather.”

The remark seemed punctuated by the howl of the wind against the rafters, and Buggy watched as Dadan’s brows furrowed.

“Then we’ll wait until it settles,” she said, and with a look that had Buggy jumping in his seat, “You have a ship, right? Is it fast?”

He felt torn between defending the speed of his vessel, and voicing his agreement, which felt like agreeing to something else entirely. But Dadan just looked at him, before her hard gaze shifted to the baby on his arm, one tiny hand still curled around a fistful of his hair, but he was quiet now, his head tucked against Buggy’s shoulder.

“You said she gave you Red-Hair’s vivre card,” Dadan said, and when Buggy looked at her next, he had his confirmation that his part in this story was far from over, as Dadan declared, and with a command that didn’t even wait for a response, let alone a protest, “Then that’s what we’ll use to find him.”

And then, her voice dropping a notch as her features tightened—

“And hopefully before Blackbeard.”

 

—

 

The _sneeze_ caught him unawares, the sheer force of it enough to rattle the desk, toppling the bottle of scotch perched on the edge, and only quick reflexes saved it from shattering on the planks. Although the rug might have cushioned the fall, Teach mused, righting the bottle, the contents sloshing against the glass. A damn good vintage, and still over half of it left, but then she had turned down his offer.

Her loss, obviously. Figures Red-Hair would marry someone so self-righteous.

“You’re a good match now,” he muttered with a snort. He’d sent Doc down to treat her cuts earlier, but they’d scar, alright. It really was a damn shame she hadn’t been quicker. She’d been unusually pretty.

He’d lost his temper, and he might have felt some regret that he’d compromised his own leverage, but even if the ‘well’ bit was up for debate, she was still alive, which was more than Red-Hair was counting on. It would probably work to his advantage, anyhow. Better a furious man than a broken one. The former was more likely to be desperate, and he needed Red-Hair to be that, not overconfident, and with nothing to lose.

And anyway, the scars added a certain…dramatic weight to the whole thing that made his grin stretch, thinking about it.

He really was a sucker for reunions. All the great stories had one, and the more dramatic the reveal, the sweeter the catharsis. Well—for the observer, anyway.

The reminder had him rifling through the contents of his desk for the book he’d been reading, and he was busy looking for it when the Den Den Mushi half-buried in the pile gave a sudden jerk.

He grasped for the receiver, shoving away a pile of ledgers and stray papers in the process. “Yeah?”

 _“Admiral,”_ came Lafitte’s voice, a slither of that cold amusement carrying it over the line, to fill his quarters. _“We are being hailed.”_

Where the hell had he put that book? A few coins tumbled over the edge at his searching, and removing one of the paperweights had one of the maps curling together, like a snake coiling in on itself. A curse slipped under his breath as he made to smooth it back out. “By who?”

There was a pause. Then, that same cool humour falling with a soft, musing hum—

_“It’s Red-Hair.”_

 

—

 

She’d lost track of time again, finding it hard to tell one hour from the next with no daylight to mark the difference, and with only the sway of the ship to tell her whether the sea was quiet or restless. Her aches kept her company, seeming never far from her reach, and Sabo and Koala talking quietly just beyond her hearing, lulling her into sleep.

And she must have dozed off, because she was jarred awake by the hinges of their cell rattling, but before she could fully open her eyes to take in what was happening, there was someone looming above her, and she’d barely had time to react before the figure was reaching for her.

“Come on,” said a man’s voice, his fingers cinched tight around the elbow of her bandaged arm as he dragged her roughly to her feet, and she cried out at the shock of pain where it jolted through her whole body.

Both Sabo and Koala were on their feet, protests lashing out, but before they could even reach for her, “The Admiral said that if you try anything,” the man told Sabo, halting him in his tracks. His voice held no cheer, just a cool, matter-of-fact truth, as he added, “he’ll pretty up her face a bit more.”

Vision swimming with tears from the pain in her arm, Makino saw Sabo hesitate, expression wild with barely-contained fury. Koala put a hand on his arm, although from the look on her face, Makino thought she looked ready to shove him out of the way and do the honours herself.

Panic was welling up within her, her inner sea surging, dredging up all the terrible things in her depths, but she shoved it down before it could drag her in, and managed a last, desperate glance behind her before the cell door slammed shut between them.

Then he was dragging her to the ladder, and she didn’t want to ask what he was taking her to do — didn’t even want to think about what Blackbeard might want her for this time; if he wanted to taunt her some more, or if he’d decided that he didn’t actually care whether his women were willing or not.

The last thought made her stumble, but the man holding her gave her a sharp tug, jostling her along, and when she gripped the ladder in her hands, Makino thought it couldn’t be her climbing it — or if it was, it was an automatic response, her body acting on its own, despite the fear rebelling within her, protesting every step. Her right arm shook, the pain making it difficult to hold her own weight, but she had no choice but to clench her teeth and ignore it.

Salt and fresh air welcomed her first, reaching her before she'd even reached the last step of the ladder, and the startled breath she heaved left her dizzy, the sea filling her lungs, filling her whole chest until she couldn't take any more, but she felt suddenly desperate for it, after all those hours spent in the musty brig.

Blackbeard’s crew had gathered on deck, those same, jeering grins from before greeting her as she climbed through the hatch into the light. She felt their eyes on her, and tried not to meet them, lifting her own instead to the skies, and the black sails above her head.

It had to be early in the morning; the dazed realisation found her between the pain and the fear amassing within her. The sun wasn’t up yet, the ship shrouded in an eerie gloom, and a thick cover of mist lay over the surface of the water beyond the bow, curling up over the railing, around the masts, white ghosts clinging to the sails. The breeze was cool against her face, the still-healing cuts hot and uncomfortable under the tight bandage over her cheek.

The spider-limbed man who Makino recognised from when she’d first stepped aboard the ship was waiting as she emerged, his cane tucked under his arm, and wearing an expression that she couldn’t place, that thin, cruel face pulled into something that almost looked like amusement. Or anticipation.

“And so, the gambit,” he said, striding towards them with that sharp, deadly grace, before he made a motion with his hand that she didn’t understand, but she was barely given time to be confused before the man who’d taken her from the brig took hold of her again, his hand clamping around her upper arm this time, not over the bandage, and Makino nearly sobbed from the relief.

But it didn’t last long, as he suddenly shoved her forward, and she didn’t even have the chance to realise what they intended to do before there were spindly fingers gripping her chin, holding it in place as he reached for the bandage on her cheek, only to rip it off in a single, brutal motion.

The blinding burst of agony startled a choked cry from her lips, and for one unbearable second, dark spots danced in front of her eyes, before the pain receded back to that now-familiar throbbing.

Reeling, Makino was too startled for tears, and didn’t even reach to touch her cheek.

“There,” the man said, that dark mouth quirking at the corners. “That should be more effective. It’s all about presentation.”

Confusion and pain swam in her head, making it difficult to think, even with the cool sigh of the sea breeze against her skin. She could hear her own breaths, the laboured rasp where they clawed up her throat, but the grip around her upper arm stayed, keeping her from sinking to her knees, and once she’d dragged in a lungful of fresh air, her head cleared a bit, although they didn’t give her time to adjust before she was suddenly being hauled across the deck. Not in the direction of Blackbeard’s quarters, but towards the railing, and the massive, log-shaped structures attached to the sides of the ship.

For a single, terrifying moment Makino feared he might throw her over the side, before she caught sight of something through the mist — tall masts rising into the sky, cleaving through the fog, and white sails spread wide, the sight of them registering with a stutter in her chest even before she’d raised her eyes, and her heart stopped at the sight of the black flag whipping the breeze; the bright red scars standing out against a white motif of a skull and crossed swords.

Shanks’ jolly roger.

 

—

 

He was awake before the sun. No longer an uncommon occurrence, when he couldn’t even bear to close his eyes for fear of dreaming, and any sleep he got these days was his body’s uncompromising reminder that it needed it, or at least the bare minimum. But even with that long-festering exhaustion that seemed to always sit just beneath the surface, rest seemed beyond him now, with what lay ahead.

They were closing in on Blackbeard, their course steady and Ben at the helm, more a captain to his crew than Shanks had been for the past few weeks. But he’d claimed the relief of command as it had been offered; silently, and with Ben’s calm, seemingly unshakeable pragmatism, although Shanks knew he was far from the only one suffering. Ben just knew how to hide it better.

Eyes closed, he listened for the pulse of his ship, seeking out its many veins; the hundred beating hearts kept within her hold, belowdecks and above. He found Yasopp, a harder presence than before, each day sharpened a little further. Ben’s was unyielding, as always; Lucky’s less so. But he sought them all, one by one, sleeping and awake, sharpening his conviction as he did. His mind, his senses.

It took effort, keeping himself focused. Shanks thought he could have used a drink, or a whole bottle’s worth, but he shoved the impulse down as soon as it had grabbed hold. A momentary spell of relief would do him no favours — not now. He needed his wits about him when they confronted Teach. If he faltered, it would mean the lives of his crew, and he’d already lost more than he could bear to live with.

The thought had his attention fleeting, away from his ship, his crew, seeking Makino, or the part of her he still could. That unfathomably kind heart that had always offered rest, and peace, with small touches, and an understanding that had seen him off on the docks for so many departures, each time without wavering. She’d never asked more of him than he could give.

Was it wrong of him now, to regret that she hadn’t?

“I’m tired, my girl,” Shanks said, to the quiet.

It didn’t respond, but —  _It’s just a little longer,_ she’d say, her eyes kind but her smile quirking, at once sympathetic and wryly knowing.  _What was it you said, once? That it doesn’t matter how long the voyage, if what’s waiting at the end is worth it?_

She would have tried to make it suggestive, but the earnest longing behind the words would have ruined the attempt. She'd always been too honest, even for coquetry.

Her words remained with him now, as they had for the past few days. He’d tried more than once to think beyond what lay ahead, and found that he couldn’t. But if defeating Teach would let them rest, as Ben had said, it might allow Shanks the same. That would have to be enough.

Looking to the porthole, it was to find the dawnlight still cold and grey, but for all the quiet solitude it offered (which was at once _hers,_ and not — not even close), his cabin felt suddenly claustrophobic, and his exhaustion replaced with restlessness.

Resolving to check their course, he’d lifted off the mattress when something clattered to the floor at his feet, and he glanced down to see the empty bottle that had been sitting there rolling under his bunk. For a moment, Shanks just stared at the empty space where it had been.

His sigh felt like it required strength, but kneeling down, he reached under the bunk, grimacing at the clumps of dust that met him as he rooted around for the bottle, before he paused, fingers brushing against something brittle and paper-like, and he frowned, before curling his hand around it and pulling it out.

He regretted it an instant later.

The lone flower sat in the cradle of his palm. Almost two years of drying in a dark corner, and dust had gathered in a thick layer over the once-waxy petals, grey and shrivelled now where they’d been soft and white, parts of it having crumpled, despite his careful handling, and the memory struck without warning—

_How many of these did you put in?_

He’d been laughing, carding his fingers through her hair, her braid coming loose and spilling flowers all over his bunk, over him, white as her skin and her wedding dress, the straps slipping down her shoulders.

_I swear there’s no end to them. I’ll be finding these in my bunk months from now._

His hand shook, and for a single second he considered crushing it, anger shoving up past the grief, but the cage of his fingers kept it whole. Or, as whole as it could be, when the years had already left their due.

And it felt like a lifetime ago, that day on the deck of his ship, her feet bare and her laughter loud and tipsy in his ears. Kneeling in his quarters now, empty of even the memory of that warmth, it felt like another man’s life, and another man’s happiness, selfish as it had been from the moment he’d asked her to choose him.

 _You put a garden’s worth of flowers in your hair but you went commando at our wedding,_ he’d told her, quietly marvelling, the arch of her bare hip soft under his fingers, and her dress coming loose, sea-foam under his touch. And he’d loved to claim it was his forte, but she’d had an uncanny way of catching him off guard, as he'd let her know, with the severe declaration  _I don’t think I’ve ever been as turned on as I am now._

The memory of her laughter was fleeting, like the smile that wanted to join it but couldn’t. But the anger was gone, having settled into cold, sober resignation.

Rising to his feet, he put the dried and crumpled flower atop the watercolour book, a lone sentinel on his desk. It seemed a paltry collection, the only things he had left of her, and of their son.

He found that cold fury again, knotting inside him until he felt breathless from it, but he pushed it down until it was manageable. He needed the anger, but he couldn’t let it control him. Teach fought dirty; he would be looking for cracks in his composure, any weakness to exploit that he hadn’t already. Shanks couldn’t lose himself now.

The knock on his door seemed as though on cue, and, “Shanks,” came Ben’s voice, the hard quality of it telling him what he was there to announce, even before he added, “It’s time.”

Shanks didn’t answer, but didn’t doubt that Ben knew he’d heard. And with a last look at the dried flower, he retrieved his sword, and made for the door.

The sun had yet to come up, and the cold light was hard on his eyes. A thick fog lay draped across the deck, across the surface of the sea, looking almost otherworldly in the way it sighed and curled, but his ship didn't falter once, certain on the water. Beyond the bow, he spotted Blackbeard’s fleet — not all there was to it, but the main ship and a handful of others, their black sails looming through the mist.

They’d crept through the fog, cutting the waters with more ease than the lumbering vessels ahead, the prow parting the sea, soft as butter. A grace of near-slithering swiftness, like a sea-serpent swimming just beneath the surface, seeking a larger prey, although Shanks didn’t doubt that Blackbeard had seen them coming. He’d meant for him to know.

The others were standing at the ready as he walked across the deck, Ben waiting by the railing and flanked by the rest of his crew. Yasopp idled a little to his left, expression hard and rifle at the ready, although he’d yet to draw it. A tense quiet swathed the atmosphere of the ship, weighing heavier that the wispy mist.

“Just say the word, Cap,” Yasopp said, as Shanks stepped past him, “and I take the shot.”

Coming to a stop beside Ben, Shanks fixed his gaze on the ship ahead. They’d drawn up beside it, the biggest of the ones gathered; the one that was ostensibly Blackbeard’s, if only from its size and trappings. But there was no sign of its captain yet, although Shanks could spot members of his crew on deck.

“No,” he said, expression hardening, along with his resolve. “I’ll deal with Teach.”

As though answering some implicit summon, he saw Blackbeard stepping into sight, out onto the wide, log-shaped structure that enclosed his vessel on either side, the planks creaking under his weight, and his steps wide with an almost cheerful swagger.

He hadn’t changed much since Shanks had seen him last, bloodied amidst the broken plaza in Marineford, but where he’d been a captain before, he seemed to have adopted his new mantle of Emperor with all the weight it carried, and not just in manners. The gold-trimmed hem of his black greatcoat stirred in the sharp caress of the breeze, and his grin cut, wild with glee even through the mist. The cool air was ripe with moisture, heralding rain, but it hardly seemed to dampen his spirits.

“Shanks!” he bellowed with a laugh, the sound of it booming across the bow, shaking loose the stiff quiet. He seemed genuinely pleased by their arrival, and there was that dark, hungry glint in his eyes Shanks remembered from the war; a near-anticipatory delight. “Nice timing. Saved me the trouble of coming to you.”

His suspicion that Blackbeard had meant to seek him out proved correct, although it still didn’t explain his reasons for taking so long in doing so. He must have realised Shanks would have been the most vulnerable right after he’d destroyed Fuschia, but why he’d bided his time so long, seeming to almost intentionally miss his window of opportunity, Shanks didn’t know. But whatever his reasons, they didn’t matter now, and Shanks had no plans of asking.

“Teach,” he said, and was surprised at the level weight of his voice, when it felt like it took everything he had to summon it, watching Blackbeard across the water, still wearing that wide, delighted grin. His name seemed to have left a dark imprint on the air, and the ship groaned, an eerie lament.

“ _Ho_ ,” Blackbeard said, the grin stretching even wider, and the wild light in his eyes brightened, seeming almost feral with excitement. “Anger’s a good look for you, Shanks. Really goes with the scars.” When he said it, he seemed suddenly pleased, as though at some private joke. Then, musingly, “Although I don’t know how I feel about the beard,” he added.

“Bastard,” Yasopp spat under his breath, but he hadn’t moved to draw his weapon, and Shanks kept his gaze resolutely pinned on the ship straight ahead. Ben said nothing, and even Lucky was silent, no snack in sight.

“Hey, sorry about your family,” Blackbeard said then, the seemingly offhand remark betrayed by the wickedly pleased edge to his smile. “But you know how it is in our world. All’s fair and all that.”

He felt the reaction in his crew first, an almost visceral _jerk_  that raced like a shudder across the deck, through the planks and the men gathered. And he’d known it was coming, but no amount of preparing could have softened the force of the blow when it struck.

But he was glad it was anger he found first and not grief, although that wasn’t far behind, the two feelings bleeding into each other, until he could no longer tell them apart. But even as he let himself feel them, Shanks didn’t allow his control to slip even a fraction, letting his haki respond instead, the familiar weight of its unleashing grounding him. The ships shuddered under the sudden pressure, the planks groaning, and the wind picked up, filling the sails and pushing the water harder against the hull.

He watched as some of the crew gathered on Blackbeard’s ship took a step back, their grins wiped off, but Blackbeard hadn’t even flinched, and his own grin had only widened, as though thrilled by the demonstration.

He laughed, a loud burst of sound. “There it is!” he crooned, even as the ship beneath him bemoaned the onslaught. “Always a damn impressive display. You’ve got a knack for drama, Red-Hair. I like it. It speaks to me.” He threw his hand out, a wide, sweeping gesture. “Theatrics is all part of the game. Where's the fun in demonstrating your power if you can't add a little flair?”

His expression darkened then, along with his smile. “That village I shot to hell? Could probably have used half the amount of firepower, but it just wouldn’t have had the same effect, you know? But that was some performance, eh? Took two whole days just to get the fires out, from what I heard. Must have been some cleanup job. They couldn’t even find any bodies.” He laughed, as though tickled by the fact. “Could you believe that? I mean shit, I know it wasn’t a big place, but even I was surprised! Makes it hard to plan a funeral, I guess.”

Then, his head cocked and his eyes gleaming, “Tell me something,” he mused. "Did you bury ‘em? I’m curious.”

“Boss,” someone said, the word escaping into the quiet, wavering with fury. Shanks couldn’t tell if it was a plea or a question.

He said nothing. Beneath him, the deck creaked, and the wind whipped against the sails, a carefully controlled frenzy. He hadn’t lifted so much as a finger, the weight of his palm resting on the pommel of his sword, still unsheathed. He felt outside of himself, somehow; detached from the reality before him.

He didn’t think about the graves, on that quiet little island that had been his last promise to her. Instead he thought about the flowers in his bunk, and the way she’d laughed, too drunk for grace.

He welcomed the hurt when it found him, the unforgiving anchor of it that kept him from slipping. Hurt of his own make, not any easier to bear, but as long as he focused on it, Teach couldn’t touch him.

Blackbeard let loose a whistle then, a low sound carrying across the distance, hinting at amazement. “Shit, her death did one hell of a number on you,” he said, with what sounded like a startled laugh, as though he was just now getting a good look at him. “I always thought the term ‘wracked with grief’ was figuratively meant, but it looks pretty literal in your case.” He grinned, seeming humoured by his own wit. “Might want to rethink that moniker. ‘Red-Hair’ doesn’t really pack as big of a punch anymore.”

He felt the rising agitation in his crew, but Shanks allowed the jibes to glance off him, one by one.

“Then again, I don’t blame you for mourning her,” Blackbeard said, and Shanks braced himself for what was coming, the taunt that was no doubt meant to unravel him. He watched the cross of Ben’s arms tightening, and Yasopp’s fingers twitched around his rifle.

“She’s really something,” Blackbeard said then, smile stretching, seeming suddenly, fiercely _knowing_. “Your wife.”

Something about the way he said it had Shanks pausing, a prickling at the back of his mind that was echoed in the silence that washed across the crew at his back. He caught Ben’s brows furrowing, but before he could say anything—

“Or at least she _was_ ,” Blackbeard said, before glancing behind him, one hand raised in a beckoning gesture, as though to bring something forward, and Shanks wasn’t given time to realise what he was actually saying before one of his crew stepped into sight—

—dragging Makino with him.

 


	13. burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to the SBS section in volume 87, the official name of Shanks' sword is "Gryphon", which I loved so much I had to include it in this chapter. How very convenient that we're gearing up for a big fight!
> 
> Seriously, though. What a great name for his sword, and for once I'm not being lewd when I say that.

There was a silence like he’d never known.

It didn’t come creeping, like the cold and the fog, both ushered in by the sea, stroking the hull with the soft, rocking hush of an attentive lover, begging weary limbs. This was a silence that _struck_ — that slammed down, a deafening weight that jarred his bones and left his ears ringing from the impact. And it took him a whole, starved second to understand that it hadn’t been a physical blow that had been dealt, too quick for even him to catch and deflect.

Shanks felt it in his whole body. It was the silence of the sea when a drowning man stopped fighting the currents; the silence that lingered on battlefields once the soil had soaked up the last of the lifeblood spilled across it, that hid in the hollows of wide, unblinking eyes, and the unnatural angles of unmoving limbs. It was the silence that was twin to Death, but nowhere near as kind.

But if the silence was cruel, the realisation that followed was even worse.

It might have been kinder; a physical wound. A single, fatal blow, and his life surrendered with a guttering rasp, his blood feeding the planks, poured back into the veins of his ship. It might have left something of him, legs to stand or lungs to breathe, watching the small figure dragged into view, not the shadow she’d been at the edge of his vision for weeks, a ghost of herself; a walking, unendurable memory of fleeting touches and soft laughter.

This was no spectre, Shanks knew, even as denial found him right at its heels, quick to fill the yawning void and tempting his wits away as disbelief seized him in a cold, unyielding grip.

It wasn’t her. It was someone else, someone who looked like her — who had those eyes, bottomless waters that brimmed with laughter when she smiled. It was someone else with those slender shoulders that he still felt the echo of under his fingers; the curve that had been made with the cup of his palm in mind. It was someone else with that delicate jawline, fine bird-bones arranged to perfection, ivory under marble, and that carried a stronger will than the fragile shape of it suggested.

It wasn’t her.

It _couldn’t_ be her.

Then she raised her eyes, and denial fled, although he’d barely been holding on to it, because he’d know her anywhere — would know her blind from more than grief and anger, and even lost with nothing left of himself, he’d know her halfway into death and find the wits to turn back. And he _knew_ her, every line of her face and her body, and even if every part of him was recoiling from the truth, the heart he hadn’t been able to piece together yet protecting itself, selfish from grieving, he couldn’t deny what he was seeing.

Recognition wasn’t any kinder than realisation, but the worst by far was what came next, as Shanks got a good look at her — her clothes in tatters and her long hair shorn, gathering at her jaw like he hadn’t seen since she’d been twenty.

And with her eyes swallowing up her face, seeming larger than they’d ever been, deep-hollow shadows rather than dark waters, she looked like the girl he’d left once, the one who hadn’t been his wife, or the mother of his child; the one who hadn’t known anything of the world, but who’d known _him_ , and finding her eyes now, he had enough sense left to wonder if he hadn’t conjured this whole encounter. That the tired, grieving heart he’d dredged back up from the depths of his despair hadn't broken his mind, too.

But if the physical truth wasn’t enough to convince him, the fact that he could _feel_ her was — the echo of her presence that he’d felt stepping out on deck, but that he’d dismissed as his mind playing tricks, seeking familiar comforts with what lay before him. But he felt her now, her presence seeming almost to solidify, as though he could reach out to touch it and find it warm, like trailing the tips of his fingers through still waters, depths endless but the surface warmed by the sun.

He couldn’t feel anything else — felt blind in truth now, to the world, and the sea, to his crew around him and the one on the ship across the water; blind to everything but the dark eyes staring back, seeming to have latched on as though to a lifeline.

“ _Shanks_ ,” Makino said then, the rough, tear-clogged quality of his name reaching towards him, sounding suddenly loud where it lanced through the quiet, and he might as well have been run through in truth for how her voice struck him, harder than the silence, and he jerked back like he’d been shot.

Her voice sounded hoarse, but ripe with something that allowed it to pierce the quiet, through the whispering mist and the labouring groans of the ships where they waited in the water, like great, shackled beasts ready to pounce. But it wasn’t relief that coloured it so sharply, and it wasn’t relief he found on her face but a mirror to his own anguish, his own disbelief, and the sweep of her eyes across him carried the expression across her whole face, marring it, and—

Her  _face._

There was an unnatural stillness within him as his gaze dragged itself loose of her grip, to fix on the right side of her face. And he saw then how the smooth skin of her cheek was darkened, blue and purple bruises blooming along the line of her jaw and cheekbone, the discolouration standing out as sharply as her eyes, her dark hair, seeming to greedily swallow up his attention.

His brows knit together, still not fully understanding what he was looking at, before it hit him, but not like a gunshot this time.

Cuts. Four altogether, stitched with precision but still in vivid contrast to the bruised skin around them, to her white skin, a perfect measure of a single finger-width between each where they spanned the delicate, curving slope from her cheekbone to her jaw. And he didn’t even need a full second to realise what manner of weapon had made them, because he _knew_ — had spent half his life looking at their twins, staring back from his reflection. He only had three; one of the blades had been broken when Blackbeard had dealt them to him, but there was no mistaking their shape, like there was no denying the wicked deliberateness behind their placement. A vicious mirror opposite to his own.

His whole crew stood as though trapped in the stunned quiet, their earlier aggression gone, evaporated like the thinning mist, the beast slack in its chains, and Shanks couldn’t have dredged up the voice to speak if forced to — couldn’t even drag his eyes away from the cuts, to meet Makino’s.

Seeming to have realised what they were all staring at, Shanks saw Makino incline her head sharply, the marred side of her face turned away, as though in embarrassment, and her eyes clenched shut.

It was what physically yanked him loose of the shock, enough to regain some control of himself, to see beyond the cuts, bared as they were. And he noticed then, the bandages wrapped around her right arm, hanging limp at her side, the other still held in an uncompromising grip by the pirate who’d dragged her out on deck.

“I’ll kill him,” Yasopp breathed, somehow managing the voice to do so, but Shanks could barely register the words, still watching Makino, who had her eyes turned away from them now, and he might have begged her to look at him if he could have mustered the voice to say anything at all.

“Nice of you to join us, nee-chan,” Blackbeard said then, the loud declaration seeming to jolt the still-stunned quiet, and Shanks watched Makino flinch, but she didn’t raise her eyes to look at him, even as Blackbeard added, musingly, “We were just talking about you.”

The pirate gripping her arm gave a sharp tug, and he saw as pain contorted her features, the choked sound that caught on the air slipping between his ribs so quickly and so sharply it took his breath. His grip clenched tight around the pommel of his sword, feeling it digging into his palm, shock and disbelief giving way to a fury that surged up without warning, and that was worse that anything he’d felt over the past few weeks, even the one he’d welcomed, that he’d steeled his conviction in.

His fingers shook, watching the one holding her, and the silent suggestion in the grip around her upper arm — watching _Makino_ , and he couldn’t take the anger, or the resurgence of grief as it rippled across his whole body, swelling and tossing and seeming to split him at the seams, a hurt that had no equal in anything he’d ever felt, including losing her.

Makino still wasn’t looking at Blackbeard, and when she lifted her eyes and they sought his, Shanks thought his knees might have given out from the expression on her face. He saw the way her gaze shifted across his own, and the furious disbelief that coloured the tops of her cheeks. And he could count the times he’d seen her _angry_ on his only hand and still have fingers left to spare, but it was what he found now, grief and fury that gathered with tears in her lashes. She always cried when she was angry.

The small and familiar intimacy found him, and so forcefully he nearly did lose his footing, because what followed was the full, unbridled realisation that _she was alive._

He lost himself a little, in that moment, the unrelenting grip he’d kept on himself slipping, nearly dragging the whole of him under, and only Ben’s silent reminder in the hand that cinched around his shoulder was what pulled him back, and so sharply he was left reeling from the momentum.

Shanks felt Makino's gaze releasing his, the quick sweep of it seeming to consider the ships, and the drop to the water between them, but before her intention could dawn on him fully—

“Let me guess,” Blackbeard mused, and she started. “You’re wondering if you can make the jump. Might break a leg, but it’d be worth it, right? Bet you’re even considering the water.” He paused, a long second of amused deliberation, before his smile turned suddenly knowing.

“I’ll take Blondie’s devil fruit,” he told her, and Shanks saw Makino flinch back as though struck, and this time she raised her eyes to Blackbeard for the first time since they’d dragged her out.

Panic had wiped the grief right off her face, but had left the anger, as Blackbeard continued, undeterred by the sight, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but Straw-Hat only has _one_ brother left, right? There isn't another somewhere that’s gonna come crawling out of the woodwork if I kill this one?”

The words came to settle with some confusion, but Makino didn’t appear confused, Shanks saw, as realisation took its place between the anger and the grief, and Blackbeard let out a pleased-sounding guffaw.

“Bet you wondered why I hadn’t already,” he said, grin wide and revealing his missing teeth. “But if you want things to go a certain way, you’ve got to learn who you’re dealing with, and what they’re willing to give—and for what price.”

At that, he cast a fleeting look at Shanks, before his gaze swivelled back to Makino. “I’d teach you a thing or two about leverage,” Blackbeard told her, still grinning, “but given what I’ve seen of you so far, I don’t think I have to. You might not be from this world, but you sure as hell learned to work it to your advantage. Hey, no need to look so upset—you did good! Most people in your shoes would have just given up, but _you_...” There was a wicked softness to the laugh that left him, sounding half-marvelling. “You bartered yourself. D’you really think I wouldn’t have a contingency plan in place, after watching that display? Unlike Dragon, I don’t underestimate people.”

Makino still hadn’t spoken, but she didn’t have to for her thoughts to be clear — had never been able to hide them, but she seemed wholly unconcerned about it now, every inch of her face wrought with such a terrible emotion that there was a split second where Shanks wondered if she’d physically reach out to strike Blackbeard, from the way her fingers had curled to fists.

It was still taking everything he had to keep his grip on himself, the truth put before him and without mercy, and barely allowing him to catch up. And he didn’t know what to do — still couldn’t find the voice to shape the words, watching her, on an enemy ship and surrounded on all sides, the hem of her skirt ripped and the thin straps of her slip seeming only to emphasise it; the softness that had been made for quiet ports, not this sea. Next to Blackbeard, she looked unbearably small, and the comparison was one he’d hoped to never see — was one he’d never imagined he would have to, but even outnumbered and at such a disadvantage, she wasn’t cowering.

The pirate holding her tightened his grip on her arm, as though having sensed the same, and there was a fleeting moment where Blackbeard’s grin wavered, before it was back full force. Shanks saw him give a sharp nod of his head, before the pirate released her, half shoving her forward, but she caught herself before she could tumble to the deck.

It left her standing between them all, ostensibly freed. And it was a keenly telling gesture, one that said plainly just how certain Blackbeard was that she wouldn’t try anything, and from the defeated look on her face, Makino had realised the same.

“We had a bargain, sweetheart,” Blackbeard crooned, and Shanks watched as she clenched her eyes shut, the tight press of her lips trembling, although he couldn’t tell if it was from grief or anger this time. And he didn’t know what kind of deal had been struck between them, but found it was the least important fact put before him, eyes glancing off the cuts again, and Blackbeard’s gleeful smile.

He wondered for a second where Ace was, but shoved the thought away before he could consider it further. He was still recovering from finding Makino alive; he didn’t know if he could bear another truth, whatever it was, especially with _hope_ reasserting itself now, despite his better judgement, and without apology. He couldn’t take it, when the whole of him seemed one nudge away from coming apart, but at the same time, he couldn’t stop looking at the cuts on her face, and to wonder where their son was — and in what condition.

He felt sick to his stomach from the rage where it ate at his insides, stripping off flesh and bone until there was enough space to contain it, even as it yearned for more, straining against his ribs, his veins and his skin.

“Heeey, why the angry face, Shanks?” Blackbeard laughed then, the words flung out across the distance, to toll amidst the ships. He did a broad sweep of his hand, indicating Makino. “She’s not dead! Isn’t this where you’re supposed to fall to your knees with relief? I wouldn't say no to some good old-fashioned begging, either." He looked at Makino, his expression suddenly put-upon. "I’m getting the feeling I expected too much out of this reunion. Reality never is as good as fiction, is it?”

But in looking at her, her eyes open and glaring back, Shanks watched as his grin curved, seeming suddenly pleased. “Then again, you’ve got the most expressive face I’ve ever seen. Guess it’s not a total loss.” Another glance at Shanks, and the next look he levelled at her had the knowing edge of a private joke. “Sure you want him back now that you've had a good look? Grief didn’t exactly do him any favours, and it wasn’t like he had a lot to go on.”

If she’d looked ready to strike him before, she looked ready to tear out his throat now, the expression on her face so unfamiliar Shanks almost didn’t recognise her. But he was lucid enough to recognise that striking Blackbeard, or even attempting to, would not go over well. It didn’t take much to stoke that temper, Shanks knew, and given her state, Teach had already demonstrated that he had little mercy to offer.

He didn’t look at her face, forcing his eyes instead to find refuge in hers, and to not wander further. He couldn’t look at what had been done to her, or even think about it, the things her visible wounds didn’t speak of, or he would do something reckless, something that was only likely to put her in more danger. And he’d failed to keep her safe once.

He wouldn’t fail her a second time.

“What do you want, Teach?”

The words were out of his mouth, shrapnel on his tongue, cutting his cheeks, cutting the air, the metallic taste of blood biting like the sharp edges where they caught on his teeth, and he knew he didn’t sound like himself from the way she _reacted_ to the sound, like she’d been gutted.

For his part, Blackbeard seemed entirely unconcerned by the question, whet with a sharp, violent promise. Rather, he seemed pleased to have found it, as though it was what he’d been waiting for.

And turning to Shanks, “I’ve got a proposition,” he declared, with all the bombast of a theatrical announcement, and accompanied by the sweep of his arms, as wide as the grin on his face, before he allowed them to lower, and the smile eased into a self-assured quirk of the lips.

“I’m not too keen on this whole power sharing of ours, all of us sitting pretty in our corners,” he continued. “This sea wasn’t made to be split four ways, it was made to be ruled, one and all. I don’t know why the hell Roger gave up his throne, but it doesn’t really matter. I’m here to claim it. Thing is though, it’s gonna take a hell of a lot of manpower to topple all three of you. Kaidou’s got his army, and Big Mom’s got so many kids I can’t keep track of ‘em all. Sheesh, what a fucked up family tree that is.” He shook his head, and a rumble of laughter from behind him punctuated his crew’s agreement.

His grin widened then, a chilling glee in it. “I’ll give her this, though—Big Mom probably wouldn’t bat an eye if I tried to use one of her brats for leverage. Well, depends on the brat, I guess, but I’m not about to waste time trying to figure out which hell-spawn in that brood is Mommy’s favourite. But you’re a different story, Shanks.”

The fog hadn’t fully let up, obscuring the sea where it whispered between the ships, but the first glare of a bloody morning sun was seeping through the grey, an old omen that Shanks felt deep in his gut, as Blackbeard said, “So here’s my offer—your cut of the cake, for your wife. I’ll hand her over, a little worse for wear but let’s be real, that’s more than you were counting on, and in return, you hand yourself over to the Government.” He grinned. “Sounds like a fair deal to me.”

The complete lack of surprise on Makino’s face told Shanks she’d already known this was coming, the heartbreak in her expression telling enough about what she thought, and watching her, Shanks wasn’t surprised that this had been Blackbeard’s plan. People had long discredited him for being reckless, but Shanks knew that cunning, and that it wasn’t to be taken lightly.

“Of course, if you don’t agree…” Blackbeard said, turning the words over, weighed like coins as he made a show of considering their worth, before his gaze settled on Shanks and he added, unsmiling and without inflection, “I’ll kill her.”

As though the verbal threat wasn’t enough, Shanks saw him drawing something out, the dull gleam of the cold dawn catching in familiar blades as Blackbeard slid them over his wrist.

Makino’s reaction was instantaneous, jerking back, only to be halted by a hand clamping down on her shoulder, keeping her in place, although Blackbeard hadn’t even raised it towards her, still watching Shanks, and it took every ounce of strength he possessed to hold himself back.

Released of their earlier shock, he felt the clanging echo of his response in his crew, the shackles tightening again, although no one had moved so much as a step, the threat of the exposed blades loud and clear. But he sensed it — not just a rising agitation now but something much darker.

At any other time, he would have looked to Ben for wisdom, but Ben hadn’t even glanced his way, and stood, spine rigid and knuckles bleeding white, and his face as unreadable as Shanks had ever seen it — nothing calculating about his silence, just a hard, unforgiving calm, as though he had no mind for strategy, and it was all he could do just keeping himself in check.

“ _Or_ ,” Blackbeard said then, tone once more considering as he tapped the blunt sides of the blades against his palm. “Maybe I’ll hand _her_ over.”

Silence forked through the air, like a sheet of ice cracking under pressure, and Shanks saw Makino look to Blackbeard, startled. And she hadn’t known about this, he realised.

Seeming wholly aware of the fact, and pleased the declaration had caused the reaction it had, Blackbeard threw her a sidelong grin, before turning his gaze back to Shanks. “The Government isn’t too happy with me at the moment, but I bet that bastard Akainu would jump at the chance of having some kind of leverage on you, after how you humiliated him in Marineford.” He snorted, before adding, “That guy holds a grudge like you wouldn’t believe.”

He paused a moment, as though allowing the words to settle, to seep into the quiet, before he said, “Then again, I don’t know if he’d even care about the leverage. He might just execute her to set an example. He’s pretty ruthless, and shit, you know that’s true when I’m the one saying it.” His smile crooked with amusement, before satisfaction sharpened the curve of it further.

“So, what’ll it be?” Blackbeard asked, arms spread in a wide arc, as though indicating the ships, the sea, the whole world in the distance between his palms, everything at his feet and his throne atop it already a given as he asked, grinning—

“You on that execution platform, or her?”

 

—

 

The question hooked itself somewhere deep in her chest, and it was taking everything she had to keep standing.

No one spoke, and the weary creak of the ship's timbers seemed suddenly loud in her ears, making it difficult to think past it, but in hearing it, Makino felt keenly the contrast; Blackbeard’s fleet, and Red Force, a lone sentinel, and it would have been a desperately welcome sight if it hadn’t been for the fact that she could do _nothing_ , only stand there and watch the crew on deck — and _Shanks_ , who she almost couldn’t bear looking at, even as she couldn’t have made herself look away if forced to.

She’d never felt so helpless. She’d thought she had, aboard Dragon’s ship, and in the brig of Blackbeard’s, but standing on deck now, it was an entirely new kind of helplessness that claimed her, that cinched so tight around her chest she couldn’t breathe, so close she could see him, could feel him, but she might as well have been on a completely different ocean for all the good it did her.

And it hurt more than anything, watching him, the sight of him at first so unfamiliar it had taken her a moment to realise who she’d been looking at, to recognise him beyond his presence, the one she would have known in her sleep, now so sharp with _hurt_ it recoiled from her touch. This wasn’t the man who’d left her on the Fuschia docks, happy and well-fed after months with her cooking, and half a year in a quiet, sunny port having left its tender marks, his skin darker and his cheeks lined with laughter from smiling, and long afternoons on the seaside having bled copper from his hair.

His hair was the first she’d noticed, a little longer than it had been, but that wasn’t the biggest difference. And she’d teased him once at the odd strand of silver she’d found, carding her fingers through it to seek hidden veins, but now the memory had her heart constricting, finding so much grey that it was hard to make out what remained of the red.

And he looked harder — looked harrowed, his cheekbones standing out and the cut of his jaw sharper than she remembered, his beard darker, heightening the severe angles. She knew his face better than she knew her own, and knew what it looked like when he smiled better than anything, the way his cheeks curved upwards and the lines that would gather at the corners of his mouth, by his eyes and between his brows, but she didn’t recognise the expression on his face now, and couldn’t have named it if asked, although she suspected it wasn’t far from what her own looked like.

The deep grooves of the scars stood out, the grey in his hair seeming to emphasise them, and she felt the damning truth of the resemblance in the flick of his eyes to the side of her face, to her right cheek. Like the rest of him, his eyes were hard, and from a distance she couldn’t make out their colour — the grey that was like the sea after a storm, sometimes yielding green when the light hit them. There was nothing familiar in them, no smile in their depths or at their corners, and she wanted to weep from the sight.

She hadn’t touched him in six months. She’d never in her life wanted anything as much as that now, and she thought she might have screamed if she’d had the strength to manage it.

The others were watching her, every gaze on deck trained on her face, anger and disbelief marring their own features, and Makino barely recognised them, the crew she'd only ever known as smiling. It took effort not to turn her head away again, and to look away from them, from Yasopp and Lucky, and Ben. Doc, and every other pair of eyes she knew, and could pin a name to with a single breath. She'd never felt so achingly aware of how she appeared, in her fraying slip and torn skirt, and her hair, even as she knew what held their attentions more than anything else.

She felt the shame as it flooded her skin, scalding her, the rush of humiliation so great it took effort to force the keening sob back down where it clawed up her throat. She’d made it so far, and for what? To be displayed at her weakest, at her most hurt and with barely any strength left to stand, in front of the people she considered her family?

She fixed her eyes on Shanks, even as it felt like the hardest thing she’d ever had to do. It felt like baring herself, and it didn’t matter that it was to someone who’d seen every inch of her, body and soul, and she _hated_ how she quailed against it, the attention of the one person she trusted more than anyone in the world.

Shanks hadn’t spoken, and Makino felt suddenly starved for the sound of his voice, even as she didn’t want him to speak, because she already knew what his answer would be. But then—

“I have a counter-offer,” he said, and her heart stuttered to a halt in her chest.

Beside her, Blackbeard let loose a snort. “You’re not really in a position to be cutting deals here.”

Shanks still hadn’t taken his eyes off hers. When he spoke, Makino felt his voice in her chest, in her gut; in her whole, broken body. “Will you hear it or not?”

She didn’t want to hear it. Even if she hadn’t expected him to try and find a way around Blackbeard’s offer, Makino didn’t want to know what the alternative was, because she could see it on his face that it would be _worse_. Not for her, but for him, but he would choose that — would do it in a heartbeat if he thought it might benefit her in some way.

“Okay,” Blackbeard said then, the barest hint of intrigue lacing the word. “I’ll bite. What’s your counter?”

Makino shook her head, a pitiful resistance, but she had nothing to back it up, and it had no effect; Shanks' grave expression stayed the same. “You and me,” he said, and only now did his eyes leave hers, to seek Blackbeard's. She felt the release of them physically. “One on one, to one of us is left standing. No outside interference. No rules.”

The words sank claws into her chest, seeming to take up the hollow space there, filling it with dread, until it felt like she couldn’t breathe, that there was no room for it, or for anything else, not even shame, just the helpless realisation of what Shanks was suggesting.

“The last time we fought,” Shanks continued, before Blackbeard could respond, “you couldn’t beat me.”

Blackbeard’s grin hardened, although it didn’t disappear, Makino saw.

And she remembered the story. Teach had been losing, but instead of forfeiting the match honourably, had feigned a surrender, and delivered a parting blow that had nearly cost Shanks his eye. It had been a dirty move, executed without apology, and the scars of which still remained, almost twenty years later. Old wounds didn’t always heal right, and Shanks wasn’t the only one who’d walked away from that battle with a hurt pride.

She realised suddenly what he was doing.

“If you still think that’s the case,” Shanks said, allowing the words to settle, and to make room for themselves. He'd barely raised his voice, but the blade's edge of authority in it didn't waver, nor did it need the loud volume that Blackbeard put behind every remark, to make an impression. “If you think that even now, you still can’t best me in a fight…I’ll hand myself over, and we’ll both know the reason. But if you think you can defeat me...”

Makino’s heart sank, as he added calmly, “You can do the honours of dragging me to that execution platform yourself.”

The memory found her without warning — of Ace on his execution day. And she knew the reason for his capture, knew it was Luffy's life that had made his decision, and she found the same determination on Shanks’ face now. The price would be paid, but on his own terms.

“Fine,” Blackbeard said, and her heart lurched in her throat, but before she could even open her mouth, he’d added, “But I have conditions.”

She saw Shanks’ gaze harden, but Blackbeard didn’t seem inclined to drag the words out to let the suspension build, theatrics shucked in favour of a rough, almost ruthless sort of practicality that seemed at odds with everything she'd learned about him.

Shanks had hit a nerve, she realised then, and knew that what was coming would be an attempt to regain some of his balance — thought that it would involve her in some way, but couldn’t be bothered to fear what it might be. What could he possibly do that would hurt her more than he already had?

But even with that cold resignation, nothing could have prepared her for what Blackbeard proceeded to say.

“I’ll fight you, and we’ll settle that old-assed score once and for all. I’ll give you a shot. Call it a...show of goodwill. Then when you lose, I’ll kill you and let her go." The hard edge to his smile eased off as he added, “but before I do, your crew will meet your fate. Every last one, and willingly.”

Her heart plummeted into her stomach.

“Those are my conditions,” Blackbeard said. “It’s either that or my first offer. So which is it? A chance to take me on, at the potential cost of your crew, or a public execution and everyone else get off scot-free?” He considered the men on the ship below. "You willing to risk all their lives on the off chance that you can beat me? It's a captain's prerogative, but it seems a little ruthless for you, Shanks. No offence."

Shanks’ expression contorted, regret writ with deep lines and furrows. And he wouldn't agree to that, Makino knew, and felt a small measure of relief, but before he could say anything—

“Deal,” Ben said, the lone word not wavering a fraction, as unshakable as the conviction pulled tight across his features, and it had barely disrupted the quiet before it was echoed throughout the whole crew, each voice raised a little louder than the last but not a shred of hesitation in any one of them, and Makino could only watch, horror replacing her earlier helplessness.

Shanks looked ready to protest, to shut down the small insubordination, but Ben’s expression remained unyielding. He didn’t even glance at his captain. “We agree to your terms,” he told Blackbeard.

Blackbeard smiled. The words when he spoke them thrummed with gratification. “Then it’s a deal.”

“ _NO_!”

The protest was out of her mouth before she could stop it, the sound of it ringing out between the ships, her voice no longer a weak rasp but a shout that _carried_ , and before she could think about what she was doing she’d stepped forward—

Something connected with her ribs, so fast and so hard it felt like she’d been _shot_ , agony erupting from the base of her ribcage to seize her whole body.

She hit the planks hard, pain surging up her arm when she reached out to catch her fall, but it barely registered, her ribs hurting so much it stole all her attention, all her air, like knives sinking into her skin, and for a moment it blinded her to everything around her, crippling her so much she couldn’t even draw breath. Dark spots danced at the edges of her vision, and the planks seemed to pull her down, an unforgiving embrace. She thought she was going to pass out.

She _felt_ Shanks reacting, the familiar weight of his haki slamming down, and the planks under her cheek groaned their protest, even as Makino welcomed it.

“Hey!” Blackbeard's voice, sounding genuinely put-off, even as it struggled to reach her where she lay gasping for breath at his feet. “ _Easy_ , jeez. That looked like it broke a rib.”

A heavy _thunk_ sounded next to her ear, the tremor reverberating throughout the planks beneath her. Blinking her eyes open, Makino found her vision blurring with tears, slipping down her nose and cheeks, but through the grey veil she caught the end of a black cane rooted to the deck before her, a quiet warning in its presence.

“Nothing broken,” the man named Lafitte said, somewhere above her, the remark breezy and touched with cool amusement. “Just nearly.”

Still clinging to consciousness, Makino dragged in a breath, then sobbed when she forced it back out, the pain seeming to come from her entire ribcage all at once. She heaved for air, fighting past the pressure on her chest, on her arm; her cheek where it was flattened against the deck.

The ship groaned again, a louder warning this time, the planks beneath her shooting cracks, but she sought his presence greedily, numb fingers grasping for a lifeline, even as the pain threatened to drag her under. She could barely think past it, and the whimper that left her was a plea so faint it was swallowed whole by the rising lament of the timbers straining under the pressure bearing down on them. She thought, deliriously, that she would have welcomed passing out now.

“You pull that trigger, Dreadlocks, and I’ll do more than break a few bones,” she heard Blackbeard saying then, the words cracking like a whip, splitting the clamour in half, but it was an effort extracting meaning from them, as though squeezing water from a rock, the sharp edges digging into her mind, but before she could wrap her head around what was happening—

“And shove a lid on your goddamn haki, Red-Hair, or I’ll render our bargain void,” Blackbeard snapped. Where he had sounded pleased at the display before, he now sounded irritated. “You think her face looks bad now? I’ll make it worse. And I’ll make you watch this time.”

Makino felt Shanks' haki yielding, the weight of it seeming to physically lift off her body, although with considerable effort, and she swallowed the plea that rose in her chest, chasing it — needing it, because without it what did that leave her?

Released of it, the world seemed to heave for breath, but Makino felt none of the relief, and the emptiness it left only seemed to emphasise how alone she was, and how little she could do.

She didn’t know what Shanks had to be feeling. She couldn’t even imagine being in his position, or what it would have done to her, finding him alive after believing him dead for so long. But even if she couldn’t imagine it, she knew what believing it had done to him, had seen the evidence on his face, the wounds as deep as her own, if not as explicit.

Something like defiance fought back within her then, shoving right past the pain, remembering his hair, and his face drawn and emaciated; that sensual mouth that was made for smiling too hard for that now, and the laughter leached from features she’d always thought looked like they’d been shaped from the sound.

Blackbeard had done that.

Purpose claimed her, left her half-wild from the sudden surge where it churned like a whirlpool, dragging all the pain and humiliation into her depths where she couldn’t reach them, as Makino shakily pushed back to her feet. The tears hadn’t stopped running, gathering at her jaw and dripping thickly onto the deck. The cuts in her cheek stung, and her arm and her ribcage. Her whole body hurt, but defiance wasn’t a crutch; she didn’t lean on it, but embraced it whole, absorbed every last shred as she rose, ribs still aching from the blow she’d been dealt, but she shoved past it, until it didn’t even faze her.

“You got anything more to say?” Blackbeard asked her, gaze flicking to her cheek when she raised her own to his; to the cuts she could feel, burrowing into her skin. “Disagreeing hasn’t worked out too well for you so far.”

She thought she might have cowered at that, once — that he might have expected her to do that, to shrink back and quail under the promise of a worse retribution than he’d already delivered. But she thought of Shanks, alive but not looking it, and Ace, who she still had no idea if she would ever see again; who, if he was even alive, was all alone on that cold, broken island.

Blackbeard could have raised his hand to her again, weapon at the ready, but Makino didn’t think she would have flinched.

And so she just looked at him — lifted her chin and _looked_ , every limb trembling but not from fear this time. She felt too much for fear, anger and that strange wildness coiling and twisting within her, something at once so calm and so reckless that she thought, detached, that if she allowed herself she might have pounced on him.

The sharp glint in his eyes told her he’d caught it on her face, but it wasn’t glee she found in the dip of his brows now.

Then, his upper lip curling in a sneer, “You don’t have a voice in this negotiation, sweetheart,” he bit off the words, and with a wave to someone behind her, snapped, “Put her back in the brig.”

She felt them moving in on her, and her anger fled, evaporated like the mist under the bleeding sun, and she barely had time to throw a panicked glance at Shanks before there were arms around her, a meaty forearm wrapping tight around her waist as she was hoisted up, her feet leaving the deck. A hand clamped over her mouth, suffocating the startled sound that leaped up her throat, and the pain in her ribcage spread, until she felt the echo of it resounding throughout her limbs.

She saw Ben reacting — a single step forward before he halted, and she didn't know if she wanted to shout for him to stay put or the opposite, fear overtaking her now, freezing the blood in her veins. It was all she could do not to gag against the hand covering her mouth.

“On second thought,” Blackbeard said then, before they could haul her off, and the pirate holding her stopped. Her startled glance caught his grin, a leering taunt, as he added, “Put her in my quarters. I don’t need her riling up Blondie more than he already is, next thing you know he’ll spontaneously combust and take half my fleet with him. Just make sure she stays put until we’re done. Knock her out if you have to.”

He turned away from her then, towards Red Force across the water. “Then she can welcome me back when I'm done with you,” he called to Shanks. “Grieving widows always make for a good fuck. They usually don’t have much fight left in them, and I like ‘em pliant.”

A new fury reared up within her before the words were even fully out of his mouth, a reaction so visceral Makino felt tears pricking against her eyes again, and any fear she'd felt she forgot, driven beyond reason by the casual remark, the threat he’d been holding over her head since she’d first stepped aboard his ship, and she was so angry she felt out of breath, felt out of her mind with it and nearly outside of herself.

And she might not have a word in the negotiations, but Blackbeard was wrong — she had a _voice._

In a last, desperate act of resistance, she bit down on the hand over her mouth with all she had, teeth sinking into tender flesh, and satisfaction found her even as bile rose in her throat at the taste, the grime and the foul sweat of skin, but she didn’t allow herself to think about it, and as the pirate pulled his hand back with an oath, Makino drew air into her lungs and _screamed_ —

“ _He doesn’t have him_!”

She was relieved when her voice rang clear, right past the sob trapped at the bottom of her throat, to pierce the shroud of mist clinging between the ships. “ _Ace_!” she shouted, her chest heaving and her voice breaking over the name. And she still had no way of knowing if he was safe, or even alive, but if she could give Shanks this, this one assurance that she had to believe in, she couldn’t bear anything else but to believe it, then she would. “Shanks, he doesn’t—”

The hand clamped down over her mouth again, shoving the words back, and she muffled a scream against the sweaty palm, the rank smell of it clogging her nostrils, cutting off her air, and she trashed against the vice of the arms around her as she was half dragged, half carried back across the deck.

She didn’t get another glance at Shanks, didn't even get a last glimpse of Red Force as they hauled her off, and the next sound muffled by the hand over her mouth was a sob, followed by another, and another, but she didn’t care that they saw her crying now. With her heart breaking in her chest and the rest of her ready to follow suit, the hairline fracture widening, shattering the last shred of hope she'd stubbornly retained in spite of everything, Makino didn’t have it in herself to do anything else.

 

—

 

The quiet that remained after they’d dragged her away came to settle like it had come to stay. Ben felt it in the air, in every single presence on deck, but most of all in their captain, back ramrod straight and his hand gripping the pommel of his sword. He hadn’t moved an inch.

Regret burned like bile in his throat. She’d been alive. He’d known something hadn’t been right, that he’d been missing something crucial, but he still hadn’t been able to put the pieces together, and all this time she’d been alive. With Blackbeard.

“Ben,” Shanks said, gaze still trained on the ship across the water. Their deal brokered, Blackbeard had retreated, a show of getting ready that was at odds with his confidence, and that was likely meant as nothing more than subtle mockery.

Shanks still hadn’t turned around, but Ben was listening as he said, his voice entirely level, “You won’t interfere. Whatever happens to me, you’ll stay out of this fight. That’s an _order_.”

Ben said nothing, but his agreement was implicit — was expected, as unusual as that was for a captain who took nothing for granted, least of all loyalty.

“And I don’t care what terms you agreed to,” Shanks continued then, the words sharper now, although he hadn't raised his voice. It wasn't a tone that suited a man who'd never been anything but cheerfully loud, but Ben didn't like thinking about how much remained of that man now, as Shanks said, “When this is over, whatever the outcome…” He turned, making for his cabin, but met Ben’s gaze before he strode past, the whole of him a razor's edge, from the line of his shoulders to the order that fell, the words bitten off, and with an air of command harder than anything Ben had heard from him in twenty years—

“You get her off that ship.”

Then he was gone, the rustle of his cloak the only thing that lingered with the crew that remained.

None of them had moved. They’d been prepared for a battle, had steeled themselves for it, win or lose, but the shock of seeing Makino seemed to have gutted them one and all, carving out that long-festering fury and leaving something none of them knew what to do with. Even Ben didn’t know how to proceed. For the first time in his life he had all the game pieces before him, but couldn’t align them for a strategy that would get them all out of this.

But remembering Makino’s face, and the hurt that had run deeper than her visible injuries, Ben found it didn’t matter if he didn't make it, so long that she did. He’d make sure of that, if nothing else. For the woman he’d let down, and the family he hadn’t been able to protect. For his captain perhaps most of all. And he wasn't alone in thinking that, he knew. Their faith in Shanks wasn't misplaced; they hadn't put forth their own lives as collateral on a whim, but if Blackbeard's price had been all their lives for hers, and no duel thrown into the bargain, he doubted there was a soul on their ship that would have hesitated a single second to pay it.

He looked to Yasopp, and was glad when he found anger on his face, not indecision. And seeing it, his own conviction firmed, an agreement struck between them in silence, a single nod to punctuate the deal. Neither of them trusted Blackbeard to uphold his end of the bargain, regardless of the outcome of that fight. Shanks had been right to suspect the same. They’d been caught unawares once; they wouldn’t be a second time. If they were, the one who would suffer would be Makino.

His own life was forfeit; Ben had already accepted that. But it wasn’t to Blackbeard he’d offered it, forgiveness begged with a coward’s surrender. No, he’d made his decision the moment they’d dragged Makino out on deck, and he’d known with that entirely calm certainty, the one that was his earmark but that he hadn't felt once in the weeks following Fuschia's destruction, that if he was giving his life to anyone, it was her.

Let that be his absolution, if he had any right to seek it.

 

—

 

The location for their fight was decided — an uninhabited island, one of the many in the New World where the local wildlife didn’t invite settlers. It was technically part of Whitebeard’s old turf, although it straddled the implied border that they all knew not to cross. Or they had known, anyway; Blackbeard had been pushing his luck with all of them, claiming smaller islands that boasted no towns or villages. The others had let him be, likely seeing no use in squabbling over scraps, but Shanks had been waiting for Teach to claim something bigger; had been waiting to see which of them he would go for first.

In the end, he’d been waiting for the wrong thing — had been busy looking elsewhere, while Blackbeard had laid out the pieces of his own game, rearranging them to suit his needs.

The slap of the water against the boat marked a steady rhythm, but nothing was said between them as Lucky worked the oars, the even pulls made without so much as a hitch of strain in his breath, and Shanks welcomed the quiet like he welcomed the company, both offered without being asked for, but then that was Lucky.

The island was drawing nearer, a pale beach dusting the shoreline, from which a dense forest crawled inland. Blackbeard’s first mate had coolly presented the location, with a tone that suggested it wasn’t up for debate, but Shanks hadn’t been about to argue the matter. A devil fruit user, Blackbeard would have been at a greater disadvantage on the water, but so would Shanks, and he had no intention of going all out with Makino anywhere in the vicinity.

The thought of her made his chest constrict, his heart like a clenched fist behind his ribcage. It still hurt, accepting it — the fact that she was alive, and that she had been all this time. It distracted his thoughts, tugging them this way and that, but not kindly, and yet he couldn’t stop thinking about it; couldn’t stop imagining what she’d gone through, even as he tried to channel his focus back to that sharp point.

He thought of her wounds, and the long hair she'd loved so much, crudely shorn. Blackbeard’s callous suggestion of what he'd do if Shanks lost. And it was difficult reining in his anger to something he could manage when the image of her kept fleeting before his eyes, and the sound of her voice kept coming back to him, the broken syllable of his name seeming to have imprinted itself on his memory, an ugly scar that had come to stay. His ugliest yet.

His fingers shook around Gryphon's sheath, seeking a familiar foothold, but it took effort anchoring himself as they drew nearer to the island, and further away from Blackbeard's ship — from Makino, somewhere on it.

The dinghy was rowed ashore, and Shanks stepped out, the sandy beach sinking under his feet in tender welcome, even as the shallow water cut, cold as ice around his ankles. The sky above was darkening, the red dawn come and gone like a fading bruise, a thick cover of clouds promising something worse than rain ushered in by its departure, but he had no mind to worry about the weather, or the things out of his control. The only thing he could control was himself, and it had never been more crucial that he did, and that he walked out of this fight as he walked into it, on his own two feet.

He would be going back to her; he couldn't believe anything else. He’d bought himself an opportunity, appealing to Teach’s ego. What would happen in the aftermath, Shanks didn’t know, but if he had a chance of making it out of this, and to get his family back…

He would give _everything_ for that.

Lifting his eyes to the horizon, he could spot Red Force in the far distance, her sails a white pearl against the charcoal sky. Blackbeard’s fleet was idling beside it, a silent stand-off that prevailed, even with their respective captains gone. But Ben had his orders, if Blackbeard’s crew tried anything, and Shanks didn't for a second doubt the decision of relieving the seat of command to his first mate. If there was one person in the world he trusted with the life of the one he held dearest, it was Ben. Nothing had changed in that regard.

Turning to the boat, he found Lucky looking at him, large hands worrying the oars awkwardly and his expression wrought. “Boss…” he trailed off, and whatever he’d meant to say, he seemed at a loss of how to say it, but Shanks only nodded, hearing it for what it was.

“Orders?” Lucky asked instead.

Shanks shook his head. “No orders,” he said. “A request.”

Lucky just looked at him, and if he could have managed one, Shanks would have smiled, but hoped his gratitude conveyed regardless, as he said, “Take care of them, if I don’t make it out of this.”

It was a request that implied more than just the aftermath of their fight, but he didn’t doubt that Lucky understood, like he didn’t doubt that there would be someone to help her, if he couldn’t defeat Teach. But his first priority was getting her back, whatever it took.

He didn’t trust Blackbeard to let her go, when all was said and done. Teach didn’t play by the rules, and so Shanks wouldn't, either; he knew better than that. He’d underestimated him once, when he’d been young and brash and high on himself, and he still bore the scars from his mistake. And then he’d done it a second time, older and with no excuse to make for his shortsightedness, and now Makino was the one who bore the evidence of his failure.

He would never forgive himself for that. If there was one thing Shanks was certain of, it was that.

Lips pressed together, Lucky only nodded. Shanks didn’t ask him to look for Ace, knowing the request was redundant. And he had no idea where their son was, or in what state, but he wasn’t on Blackbeard’s ship, and Makino’s words had suggested he was still alive.

And it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t _nearly_ enough, and as long as he didn’t have both of them within arm’s reach it never would be, but it was so much more than he’d had just a few hours ago, he would take it, and gladly.

Helping Lucky push the boat back in the water, he made his way from the shore inland, seeking the presence he could feel somewhere in the forest ahead, the dark, twisting mass of it seeming to beckon him forward, and he felt his anger rising — welcomed it, and greedily. He wasn’t keeping himself in check now, like he’d been forced to earlier, and he allowed Teach to feel it. They weren’t boys anymore, and this wasn’t a battle to stoke their respective egos. Or perhaps it was in part for Blackbeard, but Shanks had no mind for pride, or for his territory at stake; his title, with all the cursed glory it held.

This was about his family — the wife and son he’d mourned and buried, and there was a part of him that would never recover from that, Shanks knew, but he’d be damned if he let it defeat him now.

The forest was entirely still, an eerie hush preceding him that didn’t stir so much as a single leaf. There was no sign of life, no skitter of animals or birds in the underbrush, as though they'd all retreated, and the whole island was holding its breath in anticipation. The trees closed in around him, hulking beasts that sagged towards the loamy ground, their great backs hunched like old creatures carrying an even older weight. Moss crawled along the sinewy limbs of twisting trunks, seeming trapped in the earth.

There were no man-made paths to follow, but he didn’t need it, ducking under low-hanging branches with ease, and his steps certain as he made his way through the thickening underwood. It was unbearably humid, the air ripened with moisture, thick as tree-sap where it ran between his shoulder blades, crawled along his skull and down his temples and his neck, curling his hair and gathering in his beard, but he had no mind to pay to himself, or the scenery around him.

At last, a clearing opened up ahead, yawning like a giant maw, the sagging branches giving way with reluctance as Shanks stepped through and out from between the trees.

Blackbeard was already waiting, none of his crew in sight, and at least there he seemed intent on holding up his end of the bargain, but then Shanks had already suspected he would. He’d taken offence to the suggestion that he would lose, and would be seeking to set the record straight. Shanks didn’t doubt that he’d be fighting dirty to achieve it, but Teach would be fighting him alone, if only to prove that he could. Or rather, it wasn’t so much that he needed to show that he could defeat him, as it was a demonstration that he _would_. It wasn’t reckless overconfidence so much that it was simple hubris, although that made it all the more dangerous. Teach didn’t just believe he would win; he knew it.

“Shit. This almost makes me a little nostalgic,” Blackbeard said, flicking his eyes to the forest around them, the sliver of dark sky visible through the dense canopy above, before turning them back to Shanks. “You ready to settle this?”

Shanks said nothing, but then Blackbeard didn’t seem to be waiting for a response, as he made to tighten the fastenings of the blades around his wrist. Flexing his fingers, his grin cut, a vicious forewarning. “Mind if I use this?” he asked, tilting the weapon languidly. Beads of moisture had gathered on the long blades. “For old time’s sake.”

If he was expecting a reaction, Shanks didn’t give him one. He’d already anticipated that he would use the weapon, and had prepared himself to bear whatever remarks accompanied the gesture, all seeking weaknesses in his composure, the words blades of their own to sink under his skin.

When neither had any effect, Blackbeard’s expression hardened. “What?” he asked, tone jeering. “You’re the chattiest damn person I’ve ever met. Hell, last time we fought you couldn't shut up. Nothing to say now? Maybe I should have my guys bring nee-chan over, see if you’d have more to say then.” His mouth curled. “Nothing like a captive audience.”

“If your crew lays a hand on her,” Shanks said, voice carefully even but harder than he'd ever heard it, and he saw from the quirk of Teach's brows that the vow carried across, “I will make you wish I’d killed you when I had the chance, twenty years ago.”

Blackbeard’s grin only widened. “A little late for that threat,” he said, tapping the blunt sides of the blades against his palm, as though for emphasis. Shanks didn't look them, but held his gaze, unflinching.

“Real shame about her face,” Teach mused, eyes gleaming; beads as black as a crow’s. "She really was something else." He cocked his head, his expression contemplative, but the wild grin ruined his show of pondering. “She could have dodged it, you know. If you’d bothered to train her. A damn waste of an observation user, if you ask me. To tell you the truth, I was a little disappointed.”

Shanks clenched his jaw. When he spoke, his voice didn’t sound like himself, pale with barely-contained fury, “It was a test?”

Teach just shrugged. “Observation prodigies don’t come a dime a dozen. I wanted to see what she could do. She also pissed me off, so I guess there's that. But hey, it could have been worse.” The corner of his mouth jutted upwards, carving a deep groove in his face, his laugh-lines as cruel as the rest of him. “I could have taken out an eye, but she’s got good reflexes. Well—good _enough_.”

He had to keep himself under control. He couldn’t lose himself now, even as he felt himself slipping, his anger not an anchor but a churning sea, rushing hot through his veins, clogging his nose, his throat, and he felt like he was drowning in it, his legs locked and his chest aching like his ribs were breaking.

“A lot of things could have turned out differently,” Blackbeard continued, before Shanks could fully gather himself. “I took one hell of a gamble on her, but it paid off in the end. I don't have any virtues, but if I did, it'd be patience. Still, if she’d been quicker, she might have reached you before I got her.”

The heaving sea stilled within him, and all of his anger bled out of him in a single breath. “What?”

Blackbeard’s grin widened. “Oh, _right_ ,” he laughed, as though just now realising something. “You don’t know.” He threw his head back, as though delighted by the realisation.

He looked at Shanks then, eyes glittering. “I didn’t take her off that island. She came to the New World by her own means.” And before Shanks could speak, or even wrap his head around the information as he'd been given it, “I just caught up with her a few days ago,” Blackbeard added, and Shanks’ heart stopped.

Teach made a low noise of consideration, running his fingers along the blades. “She came pretty close, too. I’m a little impressed. I respect an opportunist.”

It was difficult breathing, but for a whole other reason than anger this time, although Shanks thought he might have welcomed drowning, for how he felt now.

“I wasn’t kidding when I said she was something else,” Blackbeard said then, seeming unperturbed by his lack of response. Then, “Hey,” he added, curiously. “Is she as good as she looks? For a fuck, that is. It's been a while, and I could really use one. You know what, never mind. I’ll find out once I finish up with you, so do you mind if we get down to it?”

The remark was what brought him back — was what physically _shoved_ him back into awareness, his control regained between one breath and the next, and settling with a quiet that he knew Blackbeard felt, from the way his brow slanted in a slight frown.

Anger wouldn’t anchor him. It was too volatile a feeling for that; it didn’t easily allow itself to be shackled, and Blackbeard would seek to tug at the chains whichever way he could. No, anger wouldn’t see him through this fight, Shanks knew. It wouldn’t secure his victory.

 _She_ would.

Gryphon sat in its sheath, the familiar weight of it on his hip offering a silent affirmation, and curling his fingers around the hilt, Shanks slid it out, the soft _sheek_ seeming to sit on the air, the humidity thick enough to slice in half, but he didn’t allow the discomfort to faze him as he drew his blade.

He allowed the memory to find him when it prodded with gentle fingers; a late afternoon, and honeyed sunlight dancing off the blade, newly polished and the rag still in his hand. Her curiosity had been endearing, and the touch of her fingers light and seeking, skirting the curved handle with quiet reverence, tracing the delicate metalwork like the arched spine of a favourite book.

_Gryphon, hmm?_

He’d laughed at the clever twinkle in her eye. _What?_

She’d shaken her head, her eyes still on the unsheathed blade. _It’s fitting. I’m just surprised. Given what you named your ship, I was expecting something equally ridiculous._

 _Hey!_ He’d touched a hand to his heart, but her smile had only stretched wider. _Ouch! You know, it would hurt less if you actually used the sword._

Her laughter had turned that soft, throaty lilt that suggested pleasure, but, _I can’t picture myself with a sword_ , Makino had said, even as she tested the weight of it, her palms flat under the blade, kinder callouses than his brushing against the polished metal.

Shanks had had no such trouble, especially given how she’d looked, the gleam of the blade reflected in the depths of her eyes; the green in the hilt invoking the sea-glass in her hair.  _No?_

When she’d raised them to his, her eyes had been laughing. She was terrible at hiding when she was pleased. _Can you?_

He’d grinned, delighted by the image, but he’d been serious when he’d told her,  _Yeah. A small one, though. One that’s better suited your size. With practice, I imagine you’d be very graceful. It’s distracting just thinking about it, I hope you realise what kind of images you’ve put in my head._

She’d sighed fondly.  _You’re always blaming me for that, but I think you do just fine putting them into your own head._

Makino had fallen quiet then, observing the blade laid out in her lap. _It’s a nice fantasy,_ she’d acquiesced after a pause, her smile small and secret, the way it looked when she dreamed herself off in her books.  _You’re right, though—it_ _would have to be a small one. Not like yours. It’s too big._

Shanks had looked at her, deadpan. _If it weren't for the look on your face, I’d think you were being suggestive_ , he’d told her, then with a grin, had quipped,  _But you’re right. It is. Big. As you’re well aware._

She’d whacked him with the sheath for that, but the delight had remained, bright in her eyes, and when he’d waggled his brows she hadn’t been able to hold back her laughter.

He thought of her as he raised his sword, and watched Blackbeard root his heels in the ground, eyes wild and his grin as terrible as the laughter that rose from his chest, but when the darkness began closing in around him, seeming to pour out of the very air, Shanks let his haki loose and pushed  _back,_  fingers clenching around the hilt as he steeled himself — as he channelled his whole focus towards a single point, to Makino, but not how she’d been on Blackbeard's ship. Instead he thought of how she’d been that day, laughing herself to tears and cheekily evading his kisses, small hands pressed over his mouth, and her laughter catching on a snort when he nipped at her fingers.

He didn’t remember what laughing felt like, but he remembered loving her, and their son; didn’t think he could ever forget that, no matter how much of himself he lost.

And if Blackbeard thought it was a weakness to be exploited, Shanks had a mind to demonstrate just how wrong he was.

 

—

 

The recruits were bickering on deck, but Garp had tuned them out an hour ago, an old trick perfected over years of training newbies who were all more bark than bite, although the quiet of his own mind offered no more respite than his empty quarters.

They were growing restless, he knew. They’d been idling in the same port for a few days now, his orders vague, and that wasn’t anything new for his division, but several days of squatting in a small marine base without an apparent purpose was beginning to wear on the youngest ones.

A voice rose above the din then, calm tones sharpened but not to cutting — Coby, snapping gently at the freshest in their batch to straighten up and to stop complaining ("you represent the navy, so tuck in your shirt!"), and despite himself, a small smile nudged the corner of his mouth upward, before it fell again.

He was tired. He’d been feeling it for years, wearing away his bones, older than he pretended they were, and he’d always shrugged off his struggles and pushed forward, but recent events seemed to have taken the last of his strength. He didn’t feel like there was any fight left in him — that there was anything left to fight _for_ , on a sea that he no longer recognised.

_What world did you leave us, Roger?_

The question kept coming back, considering the past two decades, each year weighing heavier than the one before it, and all of them on his back. Maybe he’d outlived his life a long time ago. He didn’t understand it, how the world could let an old failure keep living, and in the same breath take the ones who deserved a long life, and the freedom to live it, no matter their choices.

 _I love him_ , Makino had told him, twenty years old and too young to know anything of the world, but her decision already made. It seemed a cruel foreshadowing now, thinking back on it; the way she’d been, standing in the bar that had been hers for just a year, but a different girl already than the one who’d hesitantly stumbled into her responsibilities after her mother’s passing, her chin lifted and her mouth pursed as she’d declared, that wild heart entirely unconcerned with Garp’s opinion on the matter—

_And I’d risk my life for that._

He thought about the photograph he’d given Red-Hair. It was the only thing he’d had left of her, the girl who’d never been his, but who he remembered holding like she had been, the day he’d brought her to Fuschia, barely a few weeks old, swaddled snugly and dozing in his arms. He remembered Em’s reluctantly accepting glare when he’d handed her over, but there’d been no withstanding those eyes, even for a heart as hard as her mother’s had been. Garp had learned that lesson before anyone else.

And she might not have been his girl, but she’d had no one else to claim the title of father, and so he’d been the closest thing; had made himself that, whatever way he could. He’d known squat about raising a girl, but she’d always brought out a strange kind of gentleness, and for someone who’d been told all his life he was too brash for fragile things, it was something of a feat.

But he’d been gentle with her, the way her mother hadn’t been. And she’d been shaped from that, Garp thought; that unbearable kindness hewn from hands used to delivering punches, not wiping tears, but that had wiped them anyway, and the firm direction of a woman who’d never once been called maternal, at least not without taking it as an insult. She’d thrived under it, had grown up, gentle and stubborn and with a heart that hadn’t been afraid of love, when it found her.

And she'd shared with him things she hadn't shared with her mother. She would tell him about her books; those ratty old volumes she had squirrelled away that her mother would have tossed in with the firewood in the hearth if she’d caught her reading them. Exaggerated sentimental stories, but the way they lit up her face, Garp couldn’t have called them ridiculous if he’d wanted to.

 _The good king died of grief_ , she’d explained once, a new book in her keeping, a hundred pages lovingly dog-eared and her expression full of genuine empathy. She’d just received a scolding from her old lady for caring about trivial things, but Garp had asked her about it anyway, huddled in that cramped storeroom with his legs pulled up and the girl sitting among the crates across from him wiping her tears on her apron. She might have cared about trivial things, but she’d never had a trivial heart.

 _People lose people they love_ , he’d told her, too old and already too many losses on his back to remember what it felt like, to not know that kind of burden. But he did remember, those large, dark eyes staring at him from between barrels and bottles, and the thought that had struck him; that if he could have his way, she’d never have to carry it.

 _They still keep going,_ he’d said, knowing it wouldn't do her any favours thinking otherwise. _Nothing romantic about dying._

He’d expected her to fight it, and to deny the accusation of cowardice — to say that it _was_ romantic, and that it was all part of what love was and should be.

But— _No_ , Makino had agreed, worrying a dog-eared corner. _I wish he would have lived. His wife would have wanted that. But he didn’t have anyone to fight for him. His people…they just let him die._

“Not on my watch,” Garp grumbled, the old memory surrendering to the quiet of his cabin, but the thought of her lingered; twelve years old, eyes too large for her face and that wild, faithful heart too big for the world she’d been born into.

He could give her this, he thought. He didn’t know what he could have done differently that would have changed things from turning out the way they had, but he knew what he could do now — knew what Makino would have wanted, if she could have asked anything of him. For her crook of a husband to live.

And Garp couldn’t teach Red-Hair how to want to keep living, but he’d damn well make sure he was alive to figure it out, even if it meant physically dragging him back from the beyond, if Blackbeard proved too great a challenge.

He considered the empty tumbler on his desk, the dregs at the bottom untouched and the glass distorting the map spread out beneath it. From where they were docked, it wouldn’t take him long to reach Blackbeard’s fleet. He hadn’t shared his plans with anyone, and figured his actions would secure him a dishonourable discharge, although he couldn’t really dredge up the mind to give two shits. He’d been retired since the war; the position he retained was mostly as a glorified babysitter.

He might have felt some regret for his recruits, but they’d be in good hands. He’d trained Coby himself, after all. Garp wouldn’t be leaving them leaderless.

A strangled shriek sounded from outside his cabin, ripe with genuine fear, and he frowned at the door, before he recognised the presence, and snorted.

“You have your mother’s timing,” he muttered, although couldn’t quite help the grip of old fondness as he pushed to his feet, joints aching, but he ignored the pain as he made for the door, shouldering through it and into the morning air, chilled with the promise of rain and the skies in the distance holding unshed tears.

Just at the cusp of dawn, the blood on the horizon held a foreboding promise, and although Garp had never been one for sailor’s superstition, he wondered if there might be something to it, taking in the two figures standing on the deck of his ship like they’d been personally invited.

“Brat,” Garp said, voice carefully level.

His son regarded him calmly from where he stood, wholly unconcerned by the recruits that had scrambled towards the railing on either side, their weapons raised and fingers trembling on the triggers. It was a few years since Garp had seen him last, but he hadn't changed much, his dark hair pulled back severely and his eyes keen beneath the heavy weight of his brow.

He had half a mind to point out the ridiculously dramatic cloak, but curbed the impulse.

“Old man,” Dragon greeted, that low timbre that revealed nothing he didn't want it to, and from anyone else Garp might have called it damn cheeky, but his expression remained carefully unreadable. He didn’t have that from his mother.

“My,” said the woman at his side, the word a soft musing, and nothing unreadable about that. Then again, subtlety wasn't a word Garp had ever associated with her. “All this tension will give a girl ideas.” Her eyes gleamed like the butt of the cigarette perched between her fingers, and a single sweep of her gaze had the two recruits standing closest to her falling over themselves in their hurry to get back.

Her mouth curved, a thing of old teasing. In it, Garp saw a long-ago life. A bar that had always been more than it seemed, and Roger laughing.

“You’re a long way from your web, Spider,” Garp told her.

Shakky’s smile didn’t budge. If anything, she seemed pleased at the designation. “You know me, Monkey-chan. I can’t resist when there’s trouble afoot. And it’s been years since we last teamed up." Her eyes flicked to Dragon beside her, an old humour winking in them. "And your family boasts a...unique persuasiveness. Who was I to refuse?”

Garp crooked a brow. The way her eyes tilted like that promised nothing good, and part of him knew better than to ask, but, “Teamed up?”

“I would put it a little differently,” Dragon said, dryly. “No alliance, Father. I only request a moment of your time.” He paused, considering, before adding, “Something tells me you will want to give it.”

At that, Garp snorted. “One moment, huh? I’m too old to fall for that. There’s always a catch where you’re concerned, boy, and I don’t deal with insurgents.” He turned to make for his cabin, when Dragon’s voice stopped him in his tracks.

“You’ve lingered in these parts for some time now.”

There was nothing in his tone that suggested anything but simple curiosity, but the fact that he'd said it at all said enough. His son didn’t bring things up without a damn good reason.

“I’m retired,” Garp shot back. “I can do whatever the hell I want.”

“So it has nothing to do with what is about to go down between Red-Hair and Blackbeard?”

A shiver of surprised murmurs swept across the recruits on deck, several heads turning his way, although most of them were still nervously watching Dragon, rifles at the ready. Standing at the head of one group, smaller than even some of the younger recruits but still seeming intent to physically shield them, Garp caught Coby’s frown, the downwards tilt of his brows speaking of wariness, rather than the open worry he found on the faces of the others.

 _Damn you, brat._ “A coincidence,” Garp said. “I don’t meddle with Emperors.”

“You know, then?” Dragon asked.

Jaw clenched tight, Garp wasn’t about to tell him he’d damn near instigated it himself, and simply stared back. “What about it?”

That response earned him more than one startled glance, and even Coby looked concerned now, but didn’t ask him to explain, although the demand for one sat in their rigid muscles, and their low mutters where they slipped under the quiet.

Garp felt the sudden and acute need of a strong drink.

Dragon cocked his head, expression entirely blank but for the sharp look in his eyes. For the briefest of moments, Garp saw his mother; that shrewdness was no one else’s. “It’s interesting that you haven’t notified your superiors. This being a potentially world-altering event.”

The recruits were all looking at him now, their eyes wide and full of questions, but Garp didn’t answer. He didn’t know what game his son was playing, or how Shakuyaku featured into it, but he knew them both well enough to realise he wanted no part in any of it.

“I heard my son is in the vicinity,” Dragon said then, bypassing Garp’s lack of response with an ease that rankled, and that reminded him of the too-clever teenager he had been, who’d always had the uncanny ability to shift the course of a conversation to his advantage. “I suspect he will seek to interfere.”

“Luffy does what he wants,” Garp countered. “I’m not going to try and stop him.” His brow furrowed, and he didn’t bother softening the accusatory edge to the words as he said, “I’m surprised you care. Last time you showed any interest in that boy, he wasn’t even walking yet.”

“I have my priorities,” Dragon said simply.

“Yeah,” Garp snorted. “Priorities.” But the word didn’t sit with ease on his tongue. And he knew why — he couldn’t really point fingers, after all. The charge for the same crime was his to bear.

“But,” Dragon said then, and Garp was surprised to find the corner of his mouth lifting a fraction. Not a smile, but something startlingly close. “I have been told that I should reevaluate said priorities.” When Garp only frowned, he elaborated, “Exceptions can be made. This sea sometimes demands it.”

Then, and with that same, almost dry quality, "And sometimes it's not the sea that makes demands, although I'm loath to call this any less effective," Dragon said.

“Do you have a point that you’re planning to reach any time soon?” Garp asked, irritation sparking, old and familiar. Whatever he’d come to discuss, Dragon was taking his time easing him into it, but Garp didn’t have any patience left for circumventing whatever trouble his son's presence heralded. “Because I’m not getting any younger.”

Dragon’s expression remained untouched. “I owe someone a debt,” he said. Another fleeting smile grazed the corner of his mouth, lingering a little longer this time, and Garp blinked. “I tried to pay it back, but my efforts were not appreciated. She did not consider it just retribution. In hindsight, I don’t fault her.”

“Her?” Garp asked, despite himself. He hated admitting to curiosity, especially if it gave his son the upper hand, but something about Dragon’s demeanour struck him as odd. And he didn’t know how any of the things he was saying connected to Red-Hair or Blackbeard, but he had a feeling he was about to find out; whether he’d like it remained to be seen. There was already enough grief wrapped up in his particular feud, and Garp didn’t need any more.

“Emiko’s girl,” Dragon said then, and Garp heart _seized_ , but he wasn’t given the chance to recover from the declaration, before Dragon added,

“Are you ready to hear what I have to say now?”

 

—

 

She woke on the floor of Blackbeard’s quarters.

It didn’t take her as long to come to as it had the last time she’d woken, in the brig with Sabo and Koala, and with a breath she’d sat up, and so fast the whole cabin pitched along with her. Her head reeled from the sudden motion, the sensation so jarring it drew a startled shout from between her clenched teeth, and she pressed the heel of her hand to her brow, as though to shove the pain back into her skull.

It took a second of blinking through the blur, but with her head clearing, so did her thoughts, and before she'd even regained the rest of herself Makino was shoving to her feet, distress quick in reasserting itself when she realised where she was, but more importantly, that she had no idea how long she’d been out.

He’d removed the rug she’d thrown up on, the oiled planks stripped bare, but the rest was the same, although something felt different — it felt lighter somehow, the shadows softer, not as hungry as they had been, and even the looming desk didn’t seem so imposing. Dust motes danced in the air where the wan light crept through the portholes, but they yielded nothing else when she ran towards them to peer outside — not a hint of what was going on, or what had happened while she’d been out. The only thing she could see were clouds curdling along the horizon in the distance, not a blush left of the bloody dawn. A few droplets had wet the glass, fogging from the cold.

Frantic, she scrambled for the door, but found it locked, or barred from the outside, and nothing she did would budge it. Even hammering on it got her no response, not so much as a footstep on the other side. All she could hear was her own voice, and her fists pounding against the hard surface.

Panic made her bold, made her forget where she was and what resistance had already earned her, but she didn’t care, slamming her clenched fists against the ornately carved door, again and again and again, until her skin was raw from the onslaught, her wrists aching, and her throat hoarse from shouting. Her right arm shook, it hurt just keeping it elevated, and the jolt of pain shooting through it every time her fist connected with the wood made her feel like she was about to throw up again.

The uncompromising silence sapped what little remained of her strength, and Makino sank to her knees, hands flat and shaking on the door, unyielding despite her efforts, and the sob that dragged loose of her was an ugly, guttural sound, but she swallowed it with a hoarse _shout_ that startled the quiet into retreating, just for a second, and in it she found a flicker of hope — that they would hear her, and deal with her, whatever it entailed. She didn't care; she just needed to be heard.

But then it was back, creeping in from all sides, hungrier than the grey shadows where it ate up the air, draped like the heavy curtains and caging her in, pressing her down against the planks where she kneeled, her brow to the door, prostrated like a beggar, but she didn’t care what it took, if it was all she had left to offer. She would beg, and plead, although not for her own life — but for his she’d do _anything._

But if anyone cared to listen, the sea or some greater deity above or beneath it, or something even more terrible than either, there was no answer, and the door didn’t budge, not from her side or the other. No one came, although she could feel them still, Blackbeard’s crew, but when she reached beyond them, away from the ship, seeking the one that had been across the water earlier and the crew in her hold, Ben or Yasopp— _Shanks_ —there was nothing reaching back for her.

She didn’t know what it meant, if they were nearby but not near enough for her to sense, or if it meant something worse, something she couldn’t even bear to consider, remembering the bargain that had been struck for her life. And she’d sworn she wouldn't be the cause of anyone else's loss or grief; that no one else's fate would change because of her.

“No more,” she begged, the plea cracking, glass shattering on her tongue along with her voice. She tasted blood, and her tears where they blurred the world, salting the still-throbbing cuts in her cheek. “No more, _please_.”

But there was no answer this time either, and her sobs caught in her throat as she surrendered all her grief, the force of them wracking her body, and her fingers digging into the wood, willing it to yield even as she knew that it wouldn't.

And then, when it seemed like her despair couldn’t be any greater, the torn vivre card in her pocket began to burn.

 


	14. drown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this fic is one year old almost to the date, and I just wanted to thank all of you who are reading it, whether you've been along for the ride since the first chapter, or if you just started. I hope you've enjoyed it so far!
> 
> I also wanted to say thank-you to those who've taken the time to leave a comment. You all make such a huge difference to my writing experience, reminding me that there's someone on the other end. This story wouldn't be what it is without your enthusiasm and priceless reactions, and I've both cried and laughed at some of the comments you've left on this. You're all lovely!
> 
> I've had a blast writing this story so far, and I hope you'll stick around for the continuation! I promise the comfort is coming. Soon. Ish.

Water does not resist. Water flows. When you plunge your hand into it, all you feel is a caress. Water is not a solid wall, it will not stop you. But water always goes where it wants to go, and nothing in the end can stand against it. Water is patient. Dripping water wears away a stone.

Remember that, my child. Remember you are half water. If you can’t go through an obstacle, go around it. Water does.

 

Margaret Atwood, _The Penelopiad_

 

* * *

  

“No,” she breathed, the word pulling free with a hitch as she scrambled for the vivre card, no mind left to pay to the sting of the burn against her fingers as she palmed at it, as though to put it out, to physically make it _stop_. “No, _no_ —”

It didn’t help, and the sliver of paper kept burning, the slowly fraying edges limned with a pale, smouldering glow, the burn not enough to be truly painful, but the sting felt significant for a whole other reason.

Unbidden, the memory found her of the day he’d first given it to her. She'd been pregnant with their son, and he'd been preparing to go back to the New World. There'd been enough uncertainties between them that night, but the vivre card had offered her an unexpected foothold. Makino suspected it had been what had prompted the offering.

She remembered her amusement at the odd gift, and how her smile had faltered at the look on his face, when he’d told her what it was.

_What happens to the paper if you’re injured?_

She’d already suspected what it might be, watching the slip of paper shuffling across her palm towards him, a lifeline that felt like it was slipping through her fingers now, but at the time the offered comfort of its presence had been too much to pass up, even with the prospect of what keeping it entailed.

 _The paper will burn,_ Shanks had told her, with the keen understanding of what it might mean, leaving it with her. And he’d done it reluctantly, and for obvious reasons, Makino had known, even before she’d asked—

_What happens if the whole thing burns up?_

He hadn’t answered, but the look on his face had said enough. She recalled it vividly, the grave weight of his always-smiling features, and the eyes taking her in, the laughter in them dimmed as he observed her, like he did sometimes — like he was bracing himself for the possibility that it would be the last time. It had always struck her as being at odds with his unique brand of optimism, but now that she’d seen what kind of sea he sailed, seen the people on it and how far they were willing to go to rule it, Makino didn’t find it strange anymore.

She stared at the card now, slowly wearing away in her hand as panic rose anew within her, tossing like that volatile sea against her ribcage.

She wondered suddenly if Buggy still had the other piece — wondered where he was and what he made of it; of her and her silent request. She didn't know what she’d hoped to gain from giving it to him, had just hoped that it would make a difference somehow, but even if the friendship Shanks had been so quick to declare between them wasn’t just one-sided, it had been too late. In the end, it hadn’t changed anything. She was still stuck on Blackbeard's ship, and Shanks—

No. She had to believe that whatever was happening with Blackbeard, it wouldn’t be enough to defeat him. Not the man she’d married, the strongest person she knew, and who greeted every challenge the world threw his way with unrelenting cheer.

Although even as she thought it, the memory came back to her of how he’d appeared, not like he’d stopped fighting but like it was taking everything he had to remember why he should.

The thought curled, cold and foreboding around her heart-roots, but, “Don’t you dare,” she told the card, voice hoarse from her earlier screaming but the firmness didn’t allow for it to waver so much as a breath — as though if she believed hard enough, the order could somehow reach him, wherever he was. It couldn’t be on either of the ships outside; she would have felt it if that had been the case, but there wasn’t a trace of him anywhere nearby, and as long as she was stuck inside she was effectively blind.

She had to get out of this cabin.

Uncaring of the smouldering edges, she stuffed the vivre card into her boot, hands shaking and the fingers of her right hand stiff from the pain in her arm, but Makino ignored both as she made for the cluttered desk, shoving the papers and trinkets aside as she scrambled to look for — something, _anything_ , she didn’t care what it was so long that it would get her out of Blackbeard’s quarters. And she had no idea what she’d do if she succeeded, or how she’d get off the ship, but she had to do something. She couldn’t just sit still and wait while _Shanks_ —

The sob caught against her teeth, and she bit it clean in half, roughly pawing away the tears as they fell, even as she tried not to touch the cuts. Her cheek felt hot, hurt pressing up under her skin, but she ignored that too, along with everything else around her. And she didn’t care that she was making a mess, a small rebellion found in the allowance, remembering what it had felt like to stand before that desk, with Blackbeard grinning at her from across it.

One of the paperweights tumbled off the top, followed by a stack of papers as she pushed at the pile, a shout building in her throat as her search yielded nothing useful. Maps wouldn’t help her, or the books that she found — several of which she recognised from her own private library, and she hated the comparison so much she nearly screamed at the volumes, not nearly as cared-for as hers had been, even with all their dog-eared corners — and the gems and jewels and coins would get her nowhere.

She pulled one of the drawers open, the contents inside rattling loudly. A few crystal glasses and a silver bottle-opener, and an assortment of other trinkets that seemed to have been dropped in at random, a mess as cheerfully disorganised as the top of the desk.

The bottle of scotch sat there, the one he’d invited her to share, and an anger so fierce it caught her breath pushed up her chest at the sight of it, and before she knew what she was doing she was drawing it out and pulling off the cork.

She took a greedy swig, the sharp burn of the liquor down the back of her throat a sudden, visceral _relief_ , before she swallowed, and the familiar warmth that pooled low in her belly allowed her to claim a desperately needed breath, her lungs filling, aching behind her ribcage where it throbbed under her skin, before she let it out again, and let it take some of her panic with it.

Then she calmly put the cork back in, and with all the strength she could muster, _hurtled_ the bottle against the wall.

It shattered with a gratifying shower of glass, the priceless liquor sliding down to drip over the planks, soaking into the wood, and with her lips firming with satisfaction, Makino turned back to the desk.

She pulled out all the drawers, rooting through each one, and tossing out whatever didn’t look like it would help her. She needed a weapon, she thought — a knife or a pistol or even just a sharp lock pick, and Blackbeard had to have one of them stashed away somewhere. He had _everything else._

Fumbling a gemstone the size of her fist, it dropped back into the drawer, and she was ready to yield her efforts completely when the hollow sound of the impact it made against the bottom halted her in her tracks.

Then she was tossing out everything inside, shaking fingers scratching at the wood, seeking to pry it loose, a keening sound of vindication escaping her as her prodding gave way to a hidden compartment, tucked into the very bottom of the drawer, and when she pulled off the false bottom, Makino paused.

The key lay nestled in a small slot lined with dark velvet. It was about the length of her palm, the metal cool against her fingers when she drew it out, to turn it over in her hand. It looked important; the hidden compartment seemed only to punctuate the fact.

Lifting her eyes, she scanned the cabin, searching for the lock that answered to the key. She didn’t know if it would be any more useful than any of Blackbeard’s other treasures, but the small sense of achievement from finding the key was brimming under her skin, and she had nothing else to go on.

Then, her eyes skimming over Blackbeard’s library, she paused. Beside the row of shelves, there was a heavy safe tucked against the bulkhead, bolted to the planks, and she spared a single glance at the key in her hand before she shoved to her feet and ran towards it.

It took her a few seconds to get the key in the lock, her hands shaking almost uncontrollably, and she felt hyper aware of Shanks’ still-burning vivre card in her boot, but didn’t allow it to distract her as her efforts finally yielded results. The lock came loose with a satisfying little ‘pop’, and then she was tearing it away and pulling the metal door open, straining a bit against the weight, but desperation gave her strength as she heaved, and she didn’t care if the laboured whine of the hinges alerted anyone to what she was doing.

She wasn’t surprised that the safe didn’t contain gold or treasure. Given the almost careless way he threw his wealth around, Blackbeard didn’t strike her as the kind of pirate who hoarded that kind of loot out of the sight of prying eyes. Which meant the safe had to contain something truly valuable.

She wasn’t disappointed.

She’d only ever seen one in her life, but Makino thought she wouldn’t have had to in order to recognise the fruit for what it was as she withdrew it from the confines of the safe, taking in the unusual shape, and the strange texture where it rubbed against her palm. Then she pulled out another, and another; a whole assortment of devil fruits of different shapes and sizes and colours, all of them unique.

An idea was taking shape through the scrambled chaos of her thoughts, presented as she was, not with a weapon but something far stronger — something that might not only get her out of the cabin, but that might finally give her some real leverage. Power, to change her own fate, when it seemed determined to drag everyone around her down with her.

She considered the fruit in her hand, shaped like a peach but very clearly _not_ a peach, the colour a deeper blush, like a Fuschia sunset, and the pattern invoking odd whorls, with sharp little ridges protruding from the skin, hard and grainy like an orange. In comparison, the one sitting on the planks beside her was completely smooth, the silky texture begging her fingers and the pale green colour reminding her of the summer shoreline along Dawn Island.

She had no idea what any of them did. She’d seen what some devil fruits could do — had witnessed Sabo’s powers, flames conjured from seemingly nothing, and Luffy’s, which had irrevocably changed his whole body.

Luffy’s fruit had been purple, Makino remembered, but there’d been nothing about it that had suggested what it would do once consumed, and she found the same to be the case for the ones she’d pulled out of the safe. None of them gave even the smallest indication of what kind they were — if eating them would give her powers like Sabo, or if it would be like Luffy’s. What if it changed her for the worse? There was no turning back from eating a devil fruit, she knew; they were called cursed fruits for a reason.

But they had to be strong, she thought. Blackbeard probably knew which kind they were, and there had to be a reason he’d locked them all away, like a private collection. And she could use strength, in whatever shape it came to her.

She remembered suddenly what Sabo had told her, that night they’d escaped Dragon’s ship; that there were different types of strength, but the words were harder to swallow now than they had been. Her own strength had done nothing to save her, and would do nothing to save her family, her crew. She was still locked in Blackbeard’s quarters, useless, while Shanks’ vivre card burned and burned.

Indecision drummed along her veins, even as desperation made her hands shake. What other option was there, if she wanted to get off this ship?

Before she could make her decision, the lock on the cabin door turned sharply, before it swung open, only to reveal a thin, spidery shape, outlined by the darkening light. From the deck outside she could hear a tumult of movement, feet running across the planks, the rhythm falling in time with the ominous roll of thunder in the distance.

Lafitte took one look at the devil fruit in her hand, then at the ones gathered around her, before his lips firmed, but not in a smile.

“Oh?” he asked, as Makino pushed to her feet, shaking fingers curled around the not-peach. She watched as his own wrapped around the curved handle of his cane, knuckles as white as his skin, the bones sharp with the promise of pain. “Taking advantage of the Admiral’s hospitality, are we? My, my.”

He swung his cane up, a single, graceful arc before he caught the end with his other hand. “By all means, try,” he told her, the corner of his mouth lifting a little, a mockery of a smile. “Eat it.”

His look darkened, and the smile dropped from his lips, that terrible red mouth that split his face like a bloody smear.

“I shall be glad to show you how little good it will do.”

 

—

 

The brig had fallen quiet, the chorusing groans of the timbers having dwindled back down to the usual grievances of an over-large vessel, bowels straining under the weight of crew and cargo and the tender assault of the water, but even the sea appeared to have settled.

Koala wondered what had happened. There’d been a moment where it had felt like the whole ship had been about to cave in on itself, the timbers shooting cracks and the metal beams shrieking like they were about to fall in over their heads, but then, as abruptly as it had begun, the pressure had vanished.

That had been some time ago, but the quiet aftermath hadn’t provided them with any answers. They didn’t appear to be moving, and it made her fingers itch, not knowing what was going on.

They hadn’t brought Makino back down, and she felt the worry as it tossed and turned within her, restless like an upset stomach.

Unusually pensive, Sabo was staring at the bars to their cell, as though willing someone to appear on the other side. He seemed to be concentrating, although Koala didn’t know what he was trying to determine. Their chances of getting off the ship hadn’t become any better, as far as she could tell.

Her broken fingers hurt. Whatever they’d given her for the pain had long since worn off, but she welcomed it now. Better a clear head and a hurting hand than having her senses dulled by medicine.

“I can’t feel him anymore,” Sabo said then, and Koala looked up to meet his eyes as he turned his head towards her. “Blackbeard.”

Her brows knit. “What do you think that means?”

Sabo said nothing, but she recognised the faraway look in his eyes, the one that suggested he was trying to piece together a puzzle. He was always best at thinking on his feet, decisions made when there was no time to make them, but for all his hotheadedness and shoot-first-ask-questions-later approach, he was a fiercely capable strategist when the situation called for it.

“That pressure before,” he said then. “Conqueror’s haki. That had to be Red-Hair. They’ve probably made a deal by now.”

Koala dropped her eyes to the planks under their feet, following the deep fissures in the wood. Makino had confirmed that it had been Blackbeard’s plan, but it didn’t sit right — it seemed too _easy_ , somehow.

“Would he just give himself up?” she asked. She’d never met Red-Hair, but from what she knew of the other Emperors, it seemed a lot to ask of someone with that much power.

But even if she didn’t know Red-Hair, she knew the woman he’d married. She remembered the baby who’d been nothing but smiles and dark eyes, and thought that _no_ — no, it wasn’t too much to ask at all.

Sabo was quiet. Koala wondered if he was thinking about his brother, but didn’t ask.

“If he didn’t have any other choice,” he said at length. “Yeah. He would.”

He looked at her then, something like determination sharpening the slant of his brow. “But whatever deal they made, it hasn’t been that long. His ship might still be nearby.”

Understanding dawned, followed by a flicker of something that felt like hope. After the week she’d spent in the brig of Blackbeard’s ship, it almost felt like more than she could handle. “We could board it,” she breathed.

Sabo’s affirmation was a sharp nod. “We need to get Makino.” Peering through the bars, he frowned. “He hasn’t brought her down. Why? He wouldn’t have handed her over already, I don't believe it. Makino said he wanted Red-Hair to turn himself in to the Government. Blackbeard would wait until they’d executed him. He'd make sure.”

The words felt hard to speak, but Koala thought of Makino, and the cuts on her face; evidence of a ruthlessness that didn’t bother with mercy. If the negotiations hadn’t gone the way Blackbeard had hoped...“You don't think—”

“No,” Sabo cut her off, before she could even voice her suspicions. He closed his eyes, his brows pulling together. It tugged at the burn scar, drawing it tight across his cheek. “She’s still on the ship. I can feel her, but it’s faint.”

He turned towards her, and she recognised the look in his eyes now, an old thing from when they'd been kids, schemes plotted and achieved with only their wits between them, and the mess hall kitchen a few cakes shorter than it had been.

“Whatever we do, we need to find out what’s going on topside,” he said. His smile when he gave it was hard, and nothing like it had been when they’d been younger, even as he asked, “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

Koala raised a brow. “Good cop, bad cop?”

“I was thinking more ‘angry cop, sweet-but-could-actually-kill-you-with-your-own-femur cop’, but sure, if you want to simplify it.”

She rolled her eyes, and his grin lost its too-sharp edge, smoothing into something cheeky and familiar, and in that moment they weren’t in Blackbeard’s brig and they hadn’t lost all their comrades — it was just the two of them, and a mission like any other, trouble waiting to be stirred up, a mild reprimand from Hack when they returned, and one of Dragon’s long-suffering smiles.

Latching onto the feeling, Koala ignored the pain in her hand. They would get Makino and get off Blackbeard's ship, and then they would deal with whatever had happened with Dragon and the others. They weren’t trained to give up without a fight. The very essence of their whole organisation, their whole belief system, was rooted in fighting back despite the odds being stacked against them.

If they were all that was left of their branch of the Revolutionary Army, then they would fight like they were.

Stepping forward, Sabo slammed his fists against the bars, the echoing _clang_ bouncing loudly off the bulkheads. “ _Hey_!” he bellowed, the exclamation chasing the echo, before he repeated the gesture, and raised his voice. “Hey, shitheads!”

Koala stifled a smile at the choice of words. He was good at hitting buttons — had a shorter temper than most, but knew how to stoke others to his advantage. He could play the role of debonair gentleman as easily as a delinquent street thug, although watching him hammering on the bars, Koala wondered dryly if he didn’t feel most comfortable with the latter, even with his enduring penchant for waistcoats and frilly cravats.

Footsteps sounded from further down the brig, before a large shape emerged through the musty gloom. Koala recognised him as the pirate who’d come to collect Makino earlier, his expression blank but for a thin veneer of annoyance. He was a heavy-set man, boasting an almost awkwardly sized bulk, but the way he held himself didn’t suggest just a regular thug.

“You’re making a lot of noise,” he drawled, although he didn’t seem too bothered by the fact. His voice had an almost bored quality to it. “I thought I told you that if you tried anything, your pretty friend would suffer the consequences.”

He kept two steps from the bars, observing them from the other side. Koala saw that there was a bandage wrapped around his hand that hadn’t been there before. A quick sweep of her eyes sought the weapons on his person, but other than a knife tucked into his belt she found nothing else. A hand-to-hand fighter, most likely. And he was strong — she’d deduced that much from the way he’d all but carried Makino out.

Sabo glared. The temperature in the brig had risen a few degrees, but the pirate seemed unfazed by the change, as Sabo asked, “What did you do with her?”

“Sabo-kun…” The murmur was accompanied by the light touch of her hand to his elbow, a show of worry rather than a warning, but Sabo didn’t budge. The temperature climbed a little higher.

The pirate quirked a brow, but she saw him take a step closer, his gaze trained fully on Sabo. He wasn’t even acknowledging her presence where she stood, having made herself small and nervously worrying the hem of her blouse. “Why would I tell you?”

As smooth as a breath, she’d flowed forward, her good hand having slipped through the bars before he’d even had the chance to notice her moving, fingers gripping the loose skin of his neck before a single, decisive _tug_ slammed his head against them, and so hard the sound raced with a tremor through the metal.

She felt Sabo responding in turn, reaching for the pirate’s hands, only to bend his elbow around one of the bars at an awkward angle that had a pained howl echoing loudly throughout the brig, before it cut off abruptly as Koala tightened her grip, cutting off his air supply and choking a noise of surprise from his chest.

“You’ll tell us,” she told him mildly. “Or I’ll snap your clavicle in half.”

His eyes sought hers, wild and glassy where they bulged from his face. He was having trouble breathing, and she loosened her grip enough to allow him to talk, although not enough to allow him to pull away.

“You can’t,” he gasped, although she could see the disbelief where it coloured his face, sea-weathered skin tinted a blotchy red, even as a smile trembled at the corner of his mouth, frothing with saliva. “Not with your hand.”

Koala smiled; an old smile, dredged up from somewhere deep, one that didn’t reach her eyes, and she saw how his own faltered at the sight. “I don’t care if it breaks again,” she told him. “One blow at close quarters? I might break a few more fingers, but you’ll break half the bones in your body. Is that what you want?”

Realisation that she was serious seemed to be dawning on him, the panicked flick of his eyes searching frantically for a way out. She felt the nervous jump of his pulse and the bob of his adam’s apple, his skin coarse under her hand, slicked with sweat. This was why she preferred wearing gloves.

“Tell us what’s going on,” Sabo said then, applying a little more pressure on the arm he’d dragged through the bars. He’d shucked his show of open aggression now, but the tone of his voice was no less effective at this level.

Jaw set so as not to scream from the pain, the pirate fought against the hold they had on him; Koala felt the strain in her arm, but only dug her heels into the planks and pulled him closer to the bars, until he was choking on his own spit, a strangled shout lodged in his throat from where Sabo had his arm bent around the metal.

“You might want to start talking,” Sabo repeated, patiently. “She wasn’t kidding when she said she’d break all the bones in your body.”

“Half the bones, Sabo-kun,” Koala corrected sweetly.

“Either way,” Sabo said, hard smile lifting into something deceptively cheerful. “It’s going to hurt.”

His face was turning purple, but Koala didn’t slacken her grip, even as he forced out, “They’re—fighting.” His voice grated against the quiet; she felt the tremor of his vocal chords under her fingers. “The Admiral and Red-Hair.”

She frowned, but Sabo didn’t miss a beat. “And the Red-Hair Pirates?” When he didn’t answer, Sabo leaned closer. “I’ll start naming bones for her to break.”

“Th—they’re not to interfere,” he rasped. “None of us are.”

“They’re nearby?”

They got no answer, and Sabo sighed. He didn’t even glance at Koala as he said, calmly, “Start with his pelvic bone.”

“They’re close!” the pirate shouted, trying desperately to pull away, but to no avail. “But we’re not to attack them, not until the Admiral returns!”

“And Makino?” Sabo asked. When he didn’t answer this time, Koala tightened her grip on his throat, as Sabo repeated firmly, “ _Red-Hair’s wife_. What did he do with her?”

She could tell he was rapidly losing consciousness, but didn’t release her hold, as he gasped out, “She’s in his quarters!”

Sabo drew back — then looked at her with a nod, and with a sharp _jerk_ she’d slammed his head so hard against the bars he slumped to the planks without a sound. Her fingers ached as she flexed them, but it was a different ache than the one in her injured hand.

She caught Sabo shaking his head, his smile small and familiar. “That will never not be terrifying,” he told her, as she spread her fingers and drew back, before she struck with all the strength she had at the metal bars.

They came loose like rotten teeth knocked clean out of fleshy gums, the sudden assault bending several in half and the sound so loud it carried throughout the whole ship, but they didn’t wait around to see if anyone would come looking as they climbed out and set off running for the ladder.

Her legs protested the sudden strain after so many days spent mostly sitting still, but Koala welcomed the discomfort greedily. She could smell the sea as they neared the hatch, and the prospect of breathing in fresh air pushed her run into a sprint, freedom finally at her fingertips. It made her a little reckless — made her forget to look where they were going, blind from the desperate want of it, old feelings over ten years buried having come slowly crawling back, each day a little stronger with bars caging her in, and she needed to get out, _out_ —

They’d just rounded the corner when Sabo’s arm shot out, abruptly halting her in her tracks, and Koala nearly tripped over herself as the shock of the interruption hit her.

His hand reached out to steady her before she went crashing to the planks, and she was about to ask what he’d stopped her for, when she saw what he was looking at.

A large shape stood before the ladder, broad shoulders spanning the whole width of the passageway, and the top of his head nearly hitting the hatch above. Rain and grey light spilled through the opening, outlining the grotesque bulge of his muscles, and the veins protruding from his massive arms.

It took Koala less than a second to recognise him; the black mask pulled down over his long hair, and the wild grin that stretched across the exposed half of his face.

“Look who it is,” Burgess laughed. “Making a jailbreak. Captain thought you might. Told me to deal with you if you did.” He gave an exaggerated roll of his shoulders, his grin hard but curiously delighted, as he said, “I’ve been itching for a rematch. I looked for you when we trashed your headquarters, but I guess you were too busy escaping with your tail between your legs.”

The too-casual mention had her hackles raising, and Koala lifted her hand, palm flat and her fingers spread, not a defensive stance, but she’d barely made her intention clear when she felt Sabo’s where they came to cover hers.

“No,” he said, quietly. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Burgess. “This is my fight.”

She had a protest ready, but before she could open her mouth to speak it, “Find another way out,” Sabo told her. This time when she hesitated, he turned his head to look at her. “Go. Find Makino and get her to Red-Hair’s ship.” Then, flashing her a smile, “I’ll be right behind you.”

She was acutely aware of the cramped passageway, just barely wide enough for the two of them to stand shoulder to shoulder, and the leering grin on the face of the man blocking the path to the hatch. And she knew Sabo had defeated him before, and that it wasn’t a battle he couldn’t handle, but—

“Promise me,” she said.

She saw how his lips pressed together. “Koala—”

“ _Promise me_.”

She met his eyes — refused to let him drop hers, as she repeated, “Promise me you’ll be right behind me. I’m not leaving unless you say it.”

Sabo looked at her, indecision burrowed deep in his face. He wouldn’t make promises he didn’t believe he could keep, but if that was the case, there was no way Koala was leaving him to fight Burgess alone.

But then, his expression easing, indecision bleeding away to a determination she recognised, and intimately, “I promise,” he said.

This time she didn’t hesitate, even as it felt like it took everything she had to accept it, but she wouldn’t do him the injustice of doubting his word, not the one person she trusted most in the world, and she didn’t even glance at Burgess as she turned on her heel and bolted back down the way they’d come.

If there was another way to get above deck, she’d find it — would pry the planks loose with her bare hands if that was what it took, broken fingers be damned. She knew the price of freedom better than most, better than Blackbeard ever would, and she was a _revolutionary_ ; she didn’t shy away from a little sacrifice. Neither did Sabo.

It was a truth that never got any kinder, and tears burned behind her eyes as she ran, but she didn’t allow them to fall, and didn’t allow herself to falter so much as a single step, weaving through the criss-crossing passageways of the ship’s dark underbelly as she put Sabo and Burgess behind her.

She didn’t look back.

 

—

 

The second she took off running, Sabo planted his feet, intent on physically blocking the path if Burgess got it into his head to charge past him, but his opponent didn’t move — didn’t even glance behind him, towards the sound of Koala’s receding footsteps.

Cracking his knuckles loudly, Burgess’s grin only widened. “She’ll be too late,” he said. “Word’s already out about your jailbreak, and Captain said Red-Hair’s woman was fair game if you guys tried anything.”

Sabo bristled, and it took effort to let the words glance off him, knowing they were meant to stoke his temper, to make him careless. He didn’t think that Burgess was lying; Blackbeard would have contingencies in place, and he’d considered it long before they’d broken out of the brig, but if they had a chance to get off the ship they had to take it, and he had to believe Koala would make it to Makino in time.

He would deal with Burgess. He hadn’t for a second thought they’d pull off an escape without a fight, and he’d been itching for one for days, stuck in that cell with nothing to do but pace and bide their time.

And besides — he still owed Burgess for Baltigo.

“What are you going to do?” Burgess asked, as Sabo shifted his weight. His laugh carried a taunting edge. “You won’t go all out down here. Not while your partner and Red-Hair’s woman are still on board.”

That self-satisfied grin was grating on his patience, but Sabo ignored it. “I don’t need fire to fight you.” Spreading his fingers, he channelled his focus and his haki, calculating the distance between the bulkheads, his own height and width, and that of his opponent. He’d had fights in closer quarters, and with an even smaller arsenal at his disposal. And he’d beaten Burgess once before.

He’d make him remember why.

Burgess’ grin hadn't budged, but there was no more mockery offered as he drew back, before shoving away from the ladder, a triumphant laugh preceding him as he launched himself forward.

Sabo evaded the attack with ease, side-stepping Burgess’ bulk where it came charging towards him, but he was quick to redirect his focus, and when he spun back for a second attack Sabo felt the air where it knocked against his face, as he narrowly dodged the white-knuckled fist aimed for his nose.

Expelling a breath, he flexed his fingers, rooting his heels to the planks, and with his arm thrown back like a grappling hook, sank his claws straight into Burgess’ chest.

The roar of pain was a rewarding sound, and he tightened his grip, but regretted it a second later when Burgess swung his arm back, and he wasn’t fast enough to evade it this time.

His nose took the brunt of the blow, and Sabo felt as his head ricocheted off the bulkhead behind him, the impact ratting his skull as pain burst behind his eyes, bright as lightning, but even with his vision blurring he’d ducked before Burgess could land another hit, slipping out and around him as his fist connected with the wood instead, burrowing so deep he had to physically pry it loose.

There was blood gushing from his nose; Sabo tasted it, the metallic bite on his tongue and teeth, but didn’t reach up to wipe it off. He couldn’t let his guard down for even a second, or he’d give Burgess another opening.

The sound of several pairs of running feet across the deck above their heads made him wonder if Koala had made it out, and he spared a fleeting thought to Makino, wherever they were keeping her, and that Koala would get to her before any of Blackbeard’s crew did.

“Focus on what’s in front of you,” Burgess said, although when he made for him next, Sabo didn’t step aside, but met the attack head on, haki sharpened and his fingers sinking into the soft flesh above his exposed collar, right at the heart of his throat.

Burgess cried out, a gurgling oath sputtering into the dampness of the brig as Sabo cut off his air. He felt the spittle on his face, but only dug his fingers deeper, a snarl curling his lip. Even with his haki it took all of his strength not to release Burgess as he fought against the choking hold.

He had an opening, and drawing his free arm back, Sabo channelled his focus for the finishing blow, satisfaction finding him as he saw Burgess' eyes widen, no doubt realising that there was no dodging it. But before it could find its mark, the ship heaved violently beneath them, and the shock of the sudden motion caused his fingers to release their grip as the whole passage tipped sideways.

He went down hard, his injured knee taking the brunt of the fall, the pain shooting up his leg a momentary distraction as he scrambled to keep himself from rolling across the planks. It allowed his focus to slip, just for a second, but it was all it took, and he was too late in pushing to his feet as a large hand clamped down over his brow, and Sabo bit off a shout at the sudden pressure digging into his skull.

“Familiar?” Burgess asked, his voice a hoarse, guttural rasp, as though his vocal chords had been damaged. “Not so funny when you’re on the receiving end, huh?”

Sabo didn’t think he could have managed an answer if he’d looked for one. His skull felt like it was splitting in half, darkness creeping in fast from the corners of his vision, along with something that felt distinctly like _panic_ , unfamiliar as the feeling was, but it seized him now like the iron grip around his head as Burgess' fingers dug into his temples, as though they meant to push through them. He heard the ship groaning, and felt how the passageway tilted, but Burgess seemed undeterred by the disturbance, and didn't relent his grip so much as a fraction as the vessel sought to right itself.

The thought found him through the panic, that he had to pull away somehow and _fast,_ because if he gave Burgess another second he’d cave his skull in without hesitation.

But before Burgess could apply the last bit of pressure, something dropped down from the hatch behind him — another large figure, obscured by the greedy shadows where they clung to the bulkheads, and with his vision blurring Sabo couldn’t see clearly enough to make out who it was, although he caught the smell of sea and cigarette smoke as a hand grabbed around the base of Burgess’ own skull, fisting in his hair before physically hauling him back.

His attacker had the advantage of surprise, but even so, the sheer, unbridled _force_ behind the charge was felt throughout the whole ship, the passage  _pitching_ when Burgess’ body was driven, face first into the planks.

The pressure lifted off his brow, leaving his head spinning from the sudden release, and there was a moment where Sabo scrambled to figure out which was up and which was down, but he managed to shove to his feet, even as it felt like the whole ship was trying to right itself along with him. His stomach heaved with the sudden motion as he stumbled, but he fought past the sensation, unwilling to let his guard drop, because he didn’t know who’d attacked Burgess but he knew it wasn’t Koala.

Stumbling back a step, blood still running unhindered from his nose and his head pounding like it was about to burst, it took a second for his vision to readjust, and for Sabo to pin it on the large shape standing over Burgess’ prone form. Not as big, but still considerable, a set of broad shoulders and a generous paunch, and a chaotic tumble of copper-coloured curls that lodged his breath in his throat, along with the sudden recognition of what he was looking at — and the realisation of _who_ it was that had interrupted his fight.

Sabo knew he was gaping, but he couldn't string his thoughts together for a coherent response, let alone an expression that was anything but completely dumbstruck, and when he finally managed to summon his voice, it was to shape a name he hadn’t spoken in years, and that he’d never thought he’d invoke _here_ , of all times and places.

But the truth was staring him in the face, the furious glare just like he remembered, the rest of her a little older, a little more wearied and her expression wrought with something darker than anger, and his voice when it choked out of him didn’t sound like himself, but the boy he’d once forgotten he’d been.

“ _Dadan?!_ ”

 

—

 

Her fingers shook around the devil fruit as Makino stared down the pirate in the doorway, tapping his cane against his palm in a show of consideration — as though he had all the time in the world, and was only waiting for her to make the first move.

The quiet mockery behind the gesture was meant to be felt, and it burned in her throat with an angry sob, remembering what he’d put her through already — ripping off the bandage on her cheek, like preparing a prize for an auction, and the ruthless ease with which he’s struck her down when she’d resisted.

There was a chilling brutality in that calm expression that had the hairs on the back of her neck standing up. And his captain might boast a unique brand of theatrical intimidation, but Makino thought she preferred Blackbeard’s loud and unpredictable outbursts to Lafitte’s unshakeable ease.

She watched as he flicked his gaze to the fruit in her hand. From the nearly detached amusement on his face, Makino thought she might as well have been holding just a regular peach.

“No?” he asked, cocking his head, as though having read her answer on her face. But then, he probably had. “A shame. I should have liked to see what it would have made of you.”

The sudden and reckless impulse to take a bite out of the fruit gripped her, spurred by the wild, unfamiliar urge to prove that she _could_ do something, that she was more than just a bargaining chip, a hostage to be hurt and ridiculed, but his words found their mark, striking deep within her with a fear she’d come to recognise intimately.

She had no idea what eating it would make of her. And she’d already lost so much of what she had been, Makino didn’t know if she could risk losing what little was left.

Pain flared along her ankle then, startling loose a hiss, and her heart lurched in her chest when she realised what had caused it, her eyes dragged from Lafitte to the sheaf of paper sticking up from her boot.

“A vivre card,” Lafitte mused, having followed the line of her gaze. “I should have suspected. You didn’t cross the New World blindly.”

That keen gaze lifting back to Makino’s, his mouth curled in a cold smile. “Red-Hair might prove a challenge, but he will soon realise that he is no match for the Admiral. In the meantime, I shall be dealing with _you_.”

A shiver crept up her spine, considering his grip on the cane, even as Lafitte said, “I have orders not to kill you.” When she didn’t react, his mouth quirked. “I see there’s no relief on your face. Good. There shouldn’t be. Death would be a mercy.”

His expression tightened, and the cruel arrangement of his features didn't let slip so much as a shred of sympathy as he stroked his fingers along the cane in a single, reverent sweep. “And I do not peddle in _mercy_.”

She watched as he shifted his stance, the cane proffered, the tip pointed straight at her and his gaze calculating, as though he was mapping the shape of her body and weighing his options, contemplating what would cause the most pain. And she’d already felt what he could do when he was holding back, but observing him now, eyes gleaming with a madman's delight, Makino doubted he’d take care not to break any bones this time.

The devil fruit in her hand couldn’t have felt more tempting, and she wondered if that was part of the curse. Was surviving worth having to live with the consequences?

Was dying worth not taking the risk?

She wasn’t given the chance to make a decision as she ship suddenly _lurched_ , as though the sea was attempting to pitch it onto its side, tipping the cabin almost on its head, and Makino was too startled to even cry out as it knocked her legs out from underneath her.

There was nothing to grab onto, and no time to even consider trying as the unforgiving angle of the cabin saw her falling, and so fast her stomach dropped along with her, the devil fruit slipping from her fingers and out of her reach, before she came to a sudden, jarring halt against the bookshelves, and so hard her whole body felt the impact. The books were falling out, and one bounced painfully off her back where she’d curled herself up, as though to protect herself.

When she peered up through the shield of her arms, it was to find everything tilted on its side, the whole cabin pitched diagonally. Only the massive desk remained where it had been, firmly bolted to the planks, but all the trinkets and maps had fallen off, only to gather at the bottom of the cabin where Makino lay, still reeling from the shock.

The ship was slowly righting itself again, and she caught sight of Lafitte lifting to his feet across from her, having apparently been caught as much off guard as she had, although he didn’t look half as rumpled, his black hat sitting only a little askew on his head. And she didn’t know what had happened, but with his distraction a fact, Makino grabbed the opportunity as she found it, ignoring the crooked cabin and how her whole body protested the movement as she shoved to her feet.

Then she was bolting for the door, right past Lafitte, the devil fruit forgotten and only one thing on her mind.

 _She was getting off this ship_.

It was raining in earnest as she staggered out onto the main deck, a heavy and relentless downpour that battered against her shoulders, and that made it difficult to see. The dark clouds she’d seen gathering along the horizon earlier had crept across the whole sky, an oppressive shroud that seemed to weigh down over the masts where they tilted heavily to the side with the rest of the ship.

Peering through the rain, she found Blackbeard’s crew in disarray, pirates slipping and sprawling along the still-tilting deck, and no one seemed to pay her any mind as she stumbled across the planks, gripping the railing for purchase, hands numbed from the cold and shaking as she struggled to keep herself from falling. Soaking up the water, her skirt clung uncomfortably to her legs, and the soles of her boots wanted to slip on the wet timber, but she managed to stay on her feet.

She tried to locate Red Force through the chaos — searched the sea and the dark sky for familiar sails, squinting through the rain. She’d only been outside a short while but her hair was already dripping, wet strands clinging to her brow and cheeks. Exposed as they were, the cuts hurt, the pain threatening to steal her focus with every starved breath, but she forced it back down as she pushed forward, across the slippery planks, half-clinging to the railing with all the strength she had.

On which side of the ship had Shanks' been when Blackbeard had brought her out? Starboard? She couldn’t remember, but she thought it might have been that, and she was about to cross the sloping deck when she stopped, arrested by the sight that greeted her beyond the bow.

She’d thought it was the storm that had rocked the ship so violently, but that wasn’t the case — it was the _sea_ that had tilted, Makino realised, watching with slowly dawning horror what looked to be a crack in the very foundation of the earth, a great chasm having opened up, parting the sea, like two pieces in a great puzzle having slid out of place. Water cascaded down the sides of the gaping cavity, as though poured into the centre of the earth. The whole world seemed to have tipped sideways, and Makino could do nothing but stare.

A tremor shot through the deck under her feet, jolting her out of her shock, and she scrambled to hold onto the railing as the ship righted itself with a piercing groan, the vessel stubbornly seeking to reclaim its balance even as she sea beneath looked ready to tip the whole of it on its head.

She didn’t know what was happening, or what could possibly have caused such a thing, but she was acutely aware of Shanks’ vivre card in her boot, and knew it had to have something to do with Blackbeard. But she didn’t know where they were — couldn’t feel him, or Shanks, no matter how hard she looked.

A helpless sob clogged her throat as she clung to the railing, but in turning her head, she caught sight of something through the rain — sails that weren’t black, and masts she recognised, and the hope when it found her was so great it was almost more than she could bear. And when she threw out a part of herself now she found them, like clawing desperately through layers in her own mind, her fingers stiff and cold, but she could _feel_ them — Yasopp and Doc, Lucky, and this time she let the sob tear loose. It felt like it took all of her fear with it, all of her shock and her pain, finding them all at her fingertips, and with nothing holding her back now.

Pushing away from the railing, she made to move across the deck, ignoring the sea where it tilted and uncaring if she would have to jump off the side into the water, if that was what it would take to escape, but she’d taken two steps when she stopped, remembering the brig — and Sabo and Koala, who were still in it.

She couldn’t leave them. It didn’t matter if freedom was just a few steps away; there was no way she was leaving Blackbeard's ship if they were still on it.

She turned, gaze searching for the hatch leading belowdecks when a presence asserted itself, and she spun back to find one of Blackbeard’s crew staring her down, having no doubt recognised her, even through the rain and the tumult.

“Making a run for it, are you?” He spat onto the rain-soaked planks, before an ugly grin stretched his mouth wide, chapped lips wet with water and spit. He had a cruel face, his thinning hair clinging close to his brow, emphasising the awkward shape of his skull, and the small eyes beneath his heavy brow peered at her appraisingly through the rain. “Maybe I’ll have you before the Admiral gets his due. Seems only fair, since I caught you.”

The fear she’d momentarily forgotten at the sight of Red Force came crashing back as he moved, no doubt to make a grab for her, but where she might have expected to have panic claim her, no weapon to speak of but her own two hands, all Makino felt was a sudden calm as it washed over her, stilling the heaving sea within.

It was like time slowed down. Between one breath and the next, she looked at the pirate in front of her, and felt with a sudden, curious knowledge that she knew just how he’d grab her — that his arms would go around her like _so_ , and he’d shift his weight like _that_ , and if she was quick she might step out of reach and if she was quicker—

— _put your weight behind it._

The familiar remark found her before she’d let out the breath she’d claimed, and before she’d had time to think about what she was doing she’d curled her fingers to a fist, her right arm rearing back, and with her breath rushing out she _struck_ —

The satisfying _crack_ that greeted her closed fist was accompanied by a blinding burst of pain that startled a shout from her lips, and she doubled over as the pirate staggered back across the slanting deck, a string of curses muffled behind his palm.

Oh, her hand _hurt,_ like the time she’d broken two fingers catching a crate falling off one of the shelves in Party’s storeroom, except this was worse, and she stifled the keening moan with her teeth, locking her jaw against it as tears blurred her eyes.

She had no idea where that reaction had come from, and felt suddenly disoriented — as though her body had acted of its own accord, and the rest of her was only now catching up. It felt like it had in Blackbeard’s quarters, right before she’d passed out; when she’d looked at the gaping cuts in her arm and wondered, deliriously, how they’d gotten there.

Raising her eyes from where she was cradling her hand against her stomach, Makino found the pirate bent over, blood dripping down from behind the fingers he’d clamped over his nose. When he withdrew his hand, as though tossing something away, thick red droplets flew across the planks, the colour sharp against the grey and the rain. The blood smeared his face, and his nose was very clearly broken.

Makino could only stare at it, the sight as incomprehensible as the sea splitting apart.

Had she done that?

His eyes were livid, she saw even through the heavy curtain of rain that veiled everything, and she caught his snarl as he made for her again; a wet, terrible sound, ripe with a violent promise. “You _bitch_ —!”

He’d made it altogether a single step before something swooped down from above, a sharp blow dealt upon its descent, and so fast Makino barely registered it before the pirate pitched forward, only to slam heavily into the deck. He didn't try to get back up.

If he was out cold or dead she couldn’t tell, but the timely interference reached her first, kindling a spark of hope within her, before it was abruptly doused, finding Lafitte standing in his place, cane twirled between his thin hands. A pair of enormous feathered wings had sprouted from his back, and Makino watched with terrified fascination as he folded them up, spreading them once to shake off the rain, until they’d whispered away to nothing, making her wonder for a split second if she'd imagined them.

“Fool,” he told the fallen pirate, stepping over the prone body and sparing him no more than a fleeting glance. Makino couldn’t tell if it was disinterest or distaste that pulled at his features as he said, eyes lifting back to hers, “It would have been a swift death, but the orders regarding you were clear. There is no room in this crew for those who cannot follow them.”

The decisive tap of his cane against the deck tolled like a warning through her head, as he fixed her with a cool stare. The rain hardly seemed to faze him. “Now,” he said. “Where were we?”

She didn’t step back, or try to make a run for it. Somehow, being out on deck made her feel curiously reckless, even unarmed as she was, and the throbbing pain in her hand and her arm left her seized with a sudden boldness.

She’d made it this far. _She would make it further._

“Killing me would be easier,” Makino said. She didn’t know what she was saying, if she was goading him or the opposite; all she knew was that she was scrambling for a distraction, _any_ distraction. If she could just buy herself a _second_ —

“Yes,” Lafitte said, as he tightened his grip around the cane. “But as I said, the orders regarding you were clear. Your survival is ensured, at least for now. However, I did tell the Admiral that incapacitating you would be in his best interest. A lame mare can’t buck her legs.”

He paused, seeming to consider her a moment, the way he had in the cabin earlier, and Makino knew there was no striking this man down, not through luck or her own means, although the sinking realisation had barely had time to settle before he suddenly  _moved_ , that uncanny grace finding no hindrance in the slippery planks, and this time all she could do was throw her arms up, a pathetic shield, and she knew it already before she’d clenched her eyes shut, bracing herself for the blow.

It didn’t hit. Or rather, it didn’t hit her but something else, the impact yielding a sound that _clanged_ through the air, through the rain and her head and her whole body. But it wasn’t the sound of a blunt weapon connecting with flesh and bone. No, this was—

 _Metal_ , Makino realised dazedly, as she opened her eyes to see what had intercepted the attack.

The keening sound still lingered, seeming louder than the rain pounding against the deck as she raised her eyes to the towering figure before her, having planted itself between her and Lafitte, and with such speed and precision Makino hadn’t even felt them approaching.

And it took her a second to catch up, but then she recognised him — the wide-brimmed hat, and the black greatsword with the jewelled hilt. Raindrops were running in rivulets down the dark mirror of the blade, gleaming like gemstones in their own right, and the feather on his hat had soaked up the water, hanging limply off the brim, but it did little to remove the air of regal dignity he carried about him, as though compelling the weather to yield to his presence, rather than the other way around.

Mihawk inclined his head a fraction, the eyes that had last looked at her from across the counter of her bar finding Makino’s, and if she hadn’t been so surprised she might have wept from the sight.

He said nothing, not to offer an explanation or to ask one of her, and if she could have managed the voice to speak Makino thought she might have said something, but it was a feat just accepting that he was _there_ , let alone to consider what his presence meant.

Then she saw his gaze shift to her right cheek, and the furrow of his brows was a terrible thing, seeming to sharpen the eyes beneath.

“Where is he?” he asked, the level baritone falling like a blow, unforgiving where it cut through the rain. And she didn’t know if he meant Blackbeard or Shanks — thought it might be the first, from how his eyes lingered on the cuts, a terrible promise in them — but it was all for the same; wherever one was, the other would be too.

She shook her head. “I don’t know. But—his vivre card—” She didn’t reach down to withdraw it from her boot, but she saw as understanding settled across Mihawk’s features, although it was a near imperceptible shift, visible only in the slight tightening at the corners of his mouth.

He turned his gaze back to Lafitte, observing them both, although Makino had the sense his focus hadn’t slipped once, even as he’d looked at her.

Lafitte’s earlier amusement was gone, his mouth turned down at the corners as he took in his new adversary. “A curious ally,” he mused, gaze sweeping between them once. “Or is this Government interference? Strange that you would answer such an order, being a notorious recluse. Did they send you alone?”

Mihawk didn’t react, although Makino swore she saw the corner of his mouth lifting, before it fell. “A recluse, yes,” he said. “However, I am not alone.”

Lafitte frowned. And Mihawk didn’t elaborate on what he meant by that, but Makino caught the slight incline of his head, and felt the weight of his eyes when they found hers again.

“Your son is safe,” Mihawk told her then, and the sound that left her, that _ripped_ from her chest, was such that it nearly took her whole body with it, the assurance so desperately sought for but so unexpected it nearly buckled her knees.

And she didn’t know how he knew — didn’t know how he could possibly have known where she’d left him, or how he could make such a claim, but she didn’t have the mind left to ask, or even to thank him, the relief so great where it coursed through her, she couldn't feel anything else.

And it wasn’t a false relief; Makino was certain of that. Their acquaintance had been brief, a single meeting and a bottle of wine shared between them, a small alliance formed that didn’t yet answer to friendship, but she’d gathered enough from their one encounter to know that he wouldn’t have told her unless it was true — that he wasn’t a man who offered hope without being absolutely certain he could ensure it.

It was hard breathing past it, the relief filling her chest, and none of her numerous pains could even compare, suddenly offered something worth more than freedom, more than getting off Blackbeard’s ship, even as she was still keenly aware of Shanks’ vivre card where it burned, unhindered by the rain.

But she wasn’t alone. Even trapped on an enemy ship and with the sea itself splitting apart beneath it, _she wasn’t alone._

As though in answer to her thoughts, there was a hand on her elbow, and she’d been so caught up in her own, mindless relief — her baby, still alive, still _safe_ — Makino hadn’t even heard her approaching, but, “Makino-nee?” came the query, her voice soft but firm, in that way she had about her.

Glancing to the side found Koala standing there, the pink chiffon of her blouse soaked through from the rain and her hair plastered to her face, but her expression was determined, was _fierce_ with it.

She couldn’t see Sabo anywhere, but before she could ask — “He’s right behind me,” Koala said, and with enough surety that Makino didn’t question it, even as she saw from the tight press of her lips that there was more to it than a simple delay.

Mihawk spared them a single glance, before turning his gaze back to his opponent. “Red-Hair’s vessel is nearby. Take her,” he told Koala. “I will be sinking this one shortly.”

Koala nodded, although when she tugged on her elbow, Makino drew back. “Mihawk-san—”

She didn’t know what she wanted to say. She didn’t know what to do with everything she was feeling, hope and relief, and so much of both she felt like she’d forgotten what it was like, knowing them for what they were.

Her words failed her, and Mihawk didn’t turn back to look at her, but somehow, Makino thought he understood.

“I will clear you a path,” he said, fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword, and his voice when it found her next was a blade’s edge, as unwavering as the one in his grip. “Take it.”

Steeling herself, Makino nodded. And she didn’t fear that he wouldn’t make it off the ship — had gathered that he was a formidable opponent, and from more than just Shanks’ stories, and so when Koala tugged at her elbow this time, she followed.

She had a thought to ask how they were going to make it across the water to Red Force, but she’d barely opened her mouth to speak when another tremor shook the ocean floor, before the whole ship canted, and Makino felt Koala's fingers slip from her elbow as she fell, down the sharply tilting deck to the railing rushing towards her.

It greeted her without mercy, knocking the breath clean from her lungs before she could cry out, and she wasn’t even given the chance to try and grab hold before she went over the side.

The water embraced her, the impact as she hit the surface even harder than when she’d struck the railing, and the cold as she went under was such a violent shock to her system it eclipsed both sensations, leaving her unable to even react. It was like an iron vice had cinched around her ribcage, around her throat and all her limbs, locking her tight, as though she’d been wrapped in chains, the weight of them dragging her down. She couldn’t even fight it.

All around her the sea was quiet, nothing from the world above reaching her where she hung, suspended as though strung up by invisible threads. Wide-sprung, her eyes burned from the water where she stared into the depths, and her lungs screamed for relief, frozen in her chest.

She should swim up, Makino knew she she should, but she couldn’t seem to will her body into moving, to push herself back to the surface, so far above her head she couldn’t even make it out. Darkness swam at the edges of her vision, gathering at the corners of her eyes like ink bleeding through the water, unconsciousness pulling her down as the sea did the same, her body numbed beyond responding as the silence pressed in around her, muffling her thoughts and her pain.

It didn’t take her willingly, but she had no strength left to fight back. Not against this enemy, the one that had lurked beneath her every step of her voyage from East Blue; the one that didn’t easily answer to that designation, but that she had no other name for. She wasn’t a sailor — the sea wasn’t her mistress, but it was part of her, still; a more complicated union than the age-old affairs of those who would readily call it that. It had always loomed at the edge of her awareness, the whole life she’d lived, safe on the shore, no saltwater in her veins and no longing for the horizon when she looked at it. It wasn’t kind or cruel, and she’d neither loved nor hated it, but she’d kept her distance, a respect and a rivalry in the bond between them; a strange kinship. The sea, and the one who’d stolen the heart she’d wanted.

She thought of that heart as the dark greeted her now, like sinking into a familiar embrace, desperately longed-for, sun-kissed skin under her cheek and laughter rising up beneath her ear, the one-armed grip around her back pulling her close, until she couldn’t feel anything else. The water caressed her skin, her cheeks and her nose, her parted lips, a kiss that felt wrong, that was too soft, that didn’t have the slight scrape of his beard, or the grinning nip of his teeth, but it was a more tender welcome than anyone had shown her in weeks; a quiet that beckoned, as though it knew that she was tired and offered rest — offered _peace_ , when she’d all but forgotten what that word meant.

And it took so little — so very _little_ , when she'd already spent all her strength fighting — to accept.

 

—

 

_Shanks…?_

 

_Shanks?_

 

_Shanks._

 

_Shanks!_

 

The voice was muffled, before distress sharpened the gentle tones, reaching towards him from what felt like far off, as though he’d been submerged under water, but it was enough to drag him back to himself, to sharpen his focus and his mind both.

Darkness had enclosed him, eating up the light, the air, even the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears, chased by the booming laugh that seemed only amplified in comparison, but shifting his grip on Gryphon’s hilt, Shanks drew back, and with the sound of her voice still ringing in his ears, let the blade cleave through the black veil.

It parted like cloth under a scissor’s cut, and he watched as Teach’s expression contorted, displeasure curling his lip, and little of the laughter remained as he reached out, as though to physically pull the pieces back together.

But Shanks had poured enough haki into the attack that it would take Teach a second to collect himself, and a second was all he needed to go in for another.

He wasn’t quick enough, as Blackbeard threw out a hand, and Shanks was barely given a moment to react before the ground ruptured under his feet, and only a split-second reaction saved him from following suit as parts of the island’s foundation crumbled.

He threw himself back, but had his sword raised to deflect a second attack before he'd even regained his footing, although Blackbeard didn’t follow up, having instead grabbed the opportunity offered by the distraction to gather himself. It looked like it was taking more and more effort to exert control over the darkness, and Shanks filed the thought away as he steeled himself.

It had stopped raining — or at least, it had stopped raining directly above the island, the weather such an apparent annoyance Blackbeard had seen fit to absorb it, clouds and all. It had been a glaring testimony of just what kind of power he possessed, and the grin that had preceded the demonstration had made Shanks wonder if he’d done it because he’d been genuinely annoyed by the rain, or because it gave him the chance to show off.

But his opponent’s persisting mirth aside, Shanks wasn’t the only one feeling the effects of the battle, and Blackbeard’s arrogance did little to hide the signs of strain where they crept through his composure, showing in laboured breaths and a smile that wouldn’t sit on his face with ease.

Shanks felt his own exertion keenly. He’d taken measures so as not to spend himself too quickly, careful to use just enough haki to counter Blackbeard’s attacks. Logia users might be powerful, and Blackbeard’s fruit might rank among the strongest in the world, but there was little that could withstand haki in the hands of a proficient user. And Shanks was more than just _proficient._

Still, all his focus and iron control hadn’t spared him completely, and it was more than just the lingering dampness in the air that had his own breaths sitting, ragged in his chest.

The pain flared up with every breath he drew, the laceration across his chest a reminder of what it had cost, letting his anger get the better of him. He didn’t glance towards it, but felt how his shirt stuck to the wound, the fabric heavy and soaked through with more than just rainwater. It needed stitches, but he couldn’t allow it to distract him, not while Blackbeard was showing no signs of easing up. Rather the contrary, he seemed to be doubling down on his attacks.

As though in response to the thought, two whips of solid darkness lashed out towards him, but Shanks deflected both in rapid succession, and used the momentum from blocking the second to twist himself around, Gryphon bearing down and severing the first, like cutting off the head of a rearing snake. It coiled around his sword like a living thing, and this time he'd jumped back already before the ground gave way under his feet.

He felt as the wound in his chest opened up with a fresh flow of blood, soaking into his ruined shirt, and clenched his jaw against the pain.

Blackbeard was using both devil fruits, seeming at ease with drawing on their separate powers interchangeably, with barely a pause for breath between. Scattered around them, the great trees lay toppled like disfigured corpses, the forest looking like it had been wrung inside-out, uprooted and spat out by the same darkness that had consumed the rain, and beneath them the ground was cracked in several places, a deep chasm spanning the entire length of the island, great chunks of earth and rock having dislodged, to sink into the sea. It was a terrifying demonstration of destructive power, although Shanks had long known that Blackbeard hadn’t earned his reputation from simple rumours and hearsay.

The darkness shot forward again, not extensions of his arms this time but a barrage that sought to consume everything in its path, but Shanks only planted his feet and let his haki meet it, forcing it back.

Blackbeard suffocated a sneer, fingers twitching as the darkness receded, as though compelled to retreat, but Shanks didn't allow it to make him complacent.

He knew this wasn't all there was to it, but if Teach possessed the powers of more than two devil fruits, he hadn’t revealed them yet, although Shanks didn’t know if it was because they were harder to control the more he used simultaneously, or because he was pacing himself by holding back. Knowing Teach, the latter seemed out of character, especially given the fact that the battle wasn’t going the way he’d expected it to.

But if the first was the case, then that was his strategy to winning. Teach was a clever tactician, but he was also notoriously easy to distract, and didn’t take well to having his expectations subverted. He’d come prepared for a fight, but the fact that he’d tapped so deep into his personal arsenal so quickly showed that he’d thought it would be an easier victory than it was turning out to be.

The devil fruits had to be the key. Blackbeard had been hunting devil fruit users for two years, and there had to be a reason he was holding back from using them, if he did indeed have more than two. If Shanks could get him to tap into all his powers at once, he might tip the scales. All he needed was for Blackbeard's control to slip, just for a second.

“How do you like ‘em?” Blackbeard asked then, flexing his fingers. He still had the blades attached, although he’d forgone using them in favour of his other powers. But then, Shanks knew they’d been intended for little more than show; for mockery and distraction.

It had worked. The wound across his chest was testament to that.

“My powers,” Teach elaborated, as though it was somehow necessary with the destruction littered around them. The island looked little more than a breath away from splitting clean in half.

“I heard you clashed with Whitebeard,” he continued, when Shanks didn’t respond. “So? What’s it like battling the world’s strongest a second time?”

“All the devil fruits in the world won’t make you the strongest,” Shanks said, and watched as Blackbeard's eyes narrowed, his grin slipping on his mouth. “The man who held that title before you held it for a different reason. That fruit alone didn’t make Whitebeard the strongest any more than it will make you the Pirate King.”

Distaste shot cracks in his composure, fissures running with deep frown-lines throughout his expression like the broken ground underfoot.

“You know,” Blackbeard said, amusement having bled from his voice, leaving something cold and devoid of humour. “I take back what I said earlier. I prefer you when you’re not talking.”

The corner of his mouth curled then, baring his missing teeth in a leering grin as he drawled, “I liked your wife better before she got chatty, too.” He tipped the blades, as though for emphasis, before he made a single, decisive slash through the air. “But I found a way to shut her up. Effective, huh? Was her own damn fault. She got those wounds defending _you_ , although I don’t know what the hell for. But I guess it’s true what they say, that love makes you blind.” He snorted. “So I hope you’re head over heels, because there’s not a lot left of her to write songs about. You know, she—”

Shanks moved. And he was fast, always had been and twenty years between this fight and their last hadn’t changed much in that regard. Blackbeard’s bulk still didn’t allow him to evade with ease, and Shanks caught the surprised exclamation as he struck.

He’d imbued more haki into his sword than necessary, but it wasn’t just necessity that drove him, Blackbeard’s last comment still lingering, an echo in his head, making him reckless, expending more of himself than he probably should, but in that moment all he could think about were soft fingertips tracing the grooves of his scars, and her voice, an even softer murmur—

_Did it hurt?_

He hadn’t spared her from the truth when she’d asked. That boundless compassion, unasked-for but still offered without question, didn't deserve anything less. And although the memory of the fight had long since been softened by the sea of years, the jagged edges worn smooth, he remembered the pain vividly, like he remembered the time it had taken for the cuts to heal, only to become the scars that remained, livid and red even after twenty years. How long would it be until she stopped feeling hers?

Gryphon came down as a roar dragged up from deep within him, and a second’s worth of panic flickered across Blackbeard’s expression, before he brought the blades up, as Shanks knew he would. At such close quarters and with so little time, he wouldn’t be able to counter with anything else, not even his darkness.

They shattered upon impact, exploding in a shower of metal splinters, and Shanks didn’t wait to draw breath before he went in for a second strike, shifting his grip on his sword as he let it sing through the air in a low arc.

This time his blade bit into soft flesh, not solid darkness, and he heard Blackbeard’s exclamation of agony and surprise as he staggered back, clutching his side, but before he'd even stumbled to his knees he’d thrown his elbow back.

Cracks forked through the atmosphere, as though the air had been made to glass, and Shanks wasn’t given time to fall back before the ground dropped out from under his feet.

He moved with it, soles skidding along the sloping chunk of rock where it dropped into the sea, before he launched himself back, finding purchase on a section of earth that didn’t surrender to his weight.

Across the chasm, on one knee with his hand staunching the gaping wound in his side, Blackbeard spat a bloodied curse into the wet earth. Withdrawing his fingers, he considered the broken blades, the jagged edges barely reaching past the rings on his knuckles, before he raised his eyes back to Shanks.

“Felt good?” he asked. “Gotta say, that caught me by surprise. You don’t usually lose your temper. Not like you used to, anyhow.” He laughed as he pushed to his feet, a slight edge to the sound as he grit his teeth against the pain. Blood had seeped into his sash, into the fabric of his breeches, and Shanks saw that his breaths were coming heavier.

“But everyone has a breaking point,” Teach said, as he straightened his shoulders. “Figured she’d have to be yours.” His eyes gleamed, wild and feverish. “After all—you were hers.”

He threw his head back then, his laughter uproarious, and with the broken blades still attached, threw his arms out. Darkness sprang into being, wrapping around his fingers, seeping out of his skin, out of the wound in his side where it clawed at his body, as though it hoped to consume even that. It bled the colour from the air, feasting hungrily on everything it touched as Blackbeard cloaked himself in it, expression warped with rapture and agony in equal measure, as though it was taking effort to keep it under control, but that there was pleasure in overpowering it.

“Let’s finish this,” Blackbeard said, as Shanks wrapped blistered fingers around Gryphon’s hilt, a breath dragged deep as he reached for his haki, and for things to ground his thoughts — his wife first thing in the morning, laughing kisses coaxing his protests of the early hour into yielding. Their son, asleep on his chest, breaths small and soft and that little heartbeat caged safely under his palm.

He was ready to launch himself forward, an ironclad grip on his control now, on his anger where it leaped against his ribcage, when a tell-tale chirrup broke the tense quiet, halting them both.

Shanks watched as Blackbeard's gaze dragged from his to the pocket of his greatcoat, a frown pulling his brows together. The darkness hadn’t relented, hovering around him, the curl and twist of it hinting at a restlessness that seemed beyond its master, as though it had a mind of its own, but it didn't attack.

Neither of them moved, the tension heightened by the sudden interruption, seeming to have forced itself between them. It sat like a tremor in the air, echoing the one that had broken the ground under their feet. Undeterred, the Den Den Mushi kept ringing, the sound jarringly loud in the quiet where they faced off against each other.

The heavy press of Blackbeard’s brow deepened, and Shanks saw how his fingers shook, before he curled them to fists. And with his gaze fixed on Shanks again, he withdrew the snail from his pocket, before snapping at it, “What?”

 _“Admiral,”_ came the reply. Shanks recognised the voice as belonging to the one who’d struck Makino down earlier, and felt his grip around Gryphon tighten, the blisters biting into his palm. _“We have a—situation.”_

There was a hint of strain in his voice, as though he was moving while speaking, and on the other end of the line Shanks could hear the sounds of fighting.

Dread gripped him. Had the ceasefire broken?

By the look on his face, Blackbeard was thinking the same. “What kind of ‘situation’?” he asked. “The hell is going on over there?”

There was a brief pause, before what sounded like swords clashing carried over the line, followed by a soft oath, and a fluttering shiver, like the rustle of wings.

Then, _“It’s Hawk-Eyes,”_ came the voice again, sounding distinctly out of breath this time, and Shanks looked up, surprised.

Blackbeard was staring at the Den Den Mushi. His exclamation held an incredulity he didn't even try to hide. “ _Hawk-Eyes_?”

_“And it would appear that Straw-Hat’s brother has escaped. His partner, anyhow. Burgess should be dealing with him, but it’s caused something of a…commotion. You might wish to wrap things up with Red-Hair quickly.”_

Blackbeard bit off an oath. “Noted.”

Another pause followed, and then, _“Should I send for the others? Their ships shouldn’t be far.”_

Blackbeard was glaring at Shanks as he spoke, “No need. I’ll be finished here soon.” A smile stretched along his mouth then, and to Shanks, “Hawk-Eyes counts as one of your guys,” he said. “I call interference. That’s breaking one of the terms of our agreement.”

Before Shanks could protest, even knowing the futility of it, Blackbeard spoke to the Den Den Mushi, “Lafitte. Once you’ve dealt with Hawk-Eyes, go get nee-chan from my quarters. I told the guys they could have their fun if anyone tried anything.” He glanced at Shanks as he said it, and must have found what he sought, because his grin widened.

He reached to tuck the snail back into his coat, but then— _“About that,”_ Lafitte spoke. _“There is…something else.”_

Blackbeard groaned. “Now what? Don’t tell me she escaped, too?”

There was a prolonged pause, and Shanks felt the hope as it found him. If Mihawk had interfered, Ben wouldn’t have hesitated. He would have gotten her off the ship.

 _“She went overboard,”_ Lafitte said then, and Shanks went still, the hope extinguished with a shuddering breath, replaced with disbelief, with grief, both achingly familiar and seizing him even before Lafitte added,

_“I doubt she survived.”_

 

—

 

He almost couldn’t see through the damn rain, an assault that had happened upon them without even a pause for breath, although the warning had sat in the air since dawn; Yasopp had felt it, the drop in temperature, and seen the red smear across the morning skies, an old, ill omen.

Still, the weather was nothing compared to the ocean floor splitting apart, nearly taking all of them with it.

 _Damn that devil fruit_. It had been terrifying enough in Whitebeard’s keeping, but Blackbeard’s use of it lacked the same precision, and seemed to be more for show than anything else. If they’d meant for the fight to be contained to that island, they’d vastly miscalculated the trajectory of Blackbeard’s powers. Or at least Blackbeard had.

And that had to be the case. Yasopp doubted Teach would have gone to such lengths so as not to risk his whole fleet, only to gamble half of it just to show off his powers. Unless he’d grown careless, which was also possible. He wasn’t known for being level headed, least of all in the heat of battle, and Shanks had the uncanny ability to get under his opponents’ skin. Add that to their personal history, and it wasn’t unlikely he’d pushed Blackbeard into going further than he’d planned.

But there was also the possibility that he didn’t have full control of it, even after two years. Yasopp didn’t know what having one devil fruit was like, but he doubted handling _two_ could be easy, even for someone like Blackbeard.

He wondered how Shanks was faring. Their captain wasn’t one to be taken lightly in a fight, even against another Emperor, but he hadn’t exactly been at his best lately, and after the morning’s revelations, Yasopp didn’t know if it had been for the better or for the worse, for a man who’d already been to hell and back.

“Shit,” he muttered, the vivre card in his pocket burning, and worse than before, but he couldn’t spare much thought to what was happening with his captain. He had another thing keeping him occupied presently.

“I had heard,” the voice called out then, loud and clear even through the clamour and the rain, “that you were a sharpshooter of some skill. I must admit I find myself disappointed.”

Yasopp grit his teeth, back pressed against the railing. He’d tried to land a shot earlier, but the bastard was quick — was _good_ , even if it rankled to admit it.

“No offence, but I don’t really give a shit what you think,” he shot back, and didn’t bother waiting for a response. Somehow, he doubted he’d get one.

He considered the rain-slicked planks stretched out before him. The others had scattered, or had boarded Blackbeard’s ships. The enforced ceasefire had clearly gone to shit, although for what reason, Yasopp wasn’t sure, but it didn’t really matter. Right now, beyond Shanks defeating Teach, only one thing did.

And Ben would get Makino; Yasopp was sure of that. He’d lost sight of him in the chaos, and Lucky, but he’d found an adversary in Blackbeard’s sniper before he could move to follow. And better he keep the advantage of distance, anyway — his skills were best utilised with a few feet between the scope of his rifle and his targets. Ben would do the honours at close range.

Yasopp spared a moment of pity for the bastards. Ben was a ruthless pragmatist; there was little room for their captain’s mercy in those calculations, although Ben had always worked them into the equation if he could.

The memory of Makino’s face swam up before his eyes then, and Yasopp spat out a curse, whatever pity he'd felt snuffed out.

He hoped Ben made them suffer first.

“This is not your captain’s age,” Van Augur called then, with that infuriating calm. “It’s ours.”

Yasopp muttered under his breath as he reloaded his rifle, “Fuck your captain. I’ll put a bullet through his skull next.”

The cold rain bit against his skin, but his hands remained steady on his weapon. The ocean was still skewed, the deck tilted at an odd angle. He didn’t have the advantage of a steady ground to plant his feet, or even time to take aim to make up for it.

There was only one way out of this duel. He would have to be the quicker draw.

His hair was a heavy weight against his skull, obscuring his line of sight, although he’d never needed to rely on that alone to land a shot. And steeling himself, he calmed his breathing, closing his eyes until he’d shut out everything around him, the rain and the fighting, Blackbeard’s crew and his own, the crooked sea and the tilting deck of his ship, until all that was left was himself, and the rifle in his hands.

He sought out the presence on the ship across the water, singling it out through the tumult and shutting himself off to anything else, any impulse or distraction that might be all it would take, to tip the scales between them in his adversary’s favour.

_You always take too long. What are you waiting for?_

Banchina’s voice, laughter in it. Impatience, too. She’d always been the quicker draw. Not always the sharpest shot, but she’d never once hesitated.

 _Here,_ she’d said. _I’ll show you how it’s done._

Small hands had plucked the pistol from his; he remembered how she’d twirled it around her finger, one hand poised on her hip. And with a breath she’d raised it, taken aim, and _—_

_Aha! See? That’s how you do it. No need to concentrate the target into surrendering._

He’d stuck his tongue out fondly. _Your aim is still a little off,_ he’d told her. _At least half a centimetre._

She’d shrugged, and handed the pistol back, tucking his fingers around it. _That’s not the point,_ she’d said, smiling, as though she was in on some big secret, and had yet to share it. _The point is that sometimes, you just have to trust your instincts._

He remembered how she’d lookedat him as she’d said it, like she was talking about something else, something that made her mouth purse with that secret-keeper’s smile, and her lovely nose scrunch up teasingly as she'd told him,  _I’ve always trusted mine._

 _Even when your aim isn’t steady?_ Yasopp remembered asking. He’d teasingly questioned it, and often, that surety — the same she’d had when she’d told him she’d marry him one day, and when she’d been confined to their bed during the last few weeks of her pregnancy, when the doctor hadn’t been sure either of them would make it. She’d told him they would, not a single beat left for doubt to take root. She’d just smiled, and with that soft certainty, had said _—_

_Then more than ever._

Springing to his feet, he’d taken aim with a single breath, his target locked before he could take another, but between them he saw Van Augur pull the trigger, and the realisation of his failure found him before the bullet did.

Too slow.

“ _Shit_ —”

But the shot never reached him. Intercepted mid-air, Yasopp watched with blank fascination as the bullet dropped into the water between the ships, and even Van Augur’s unflappable ease yielded to a flicker of surprise.

A pause of perfect silence followed, the rain seeming to muffle everything, suffusing the world in a strange quiet, before they both looked towards the railing, and the figure perched atop it, slingshot still aimed.

“Have a seat, dad,” his son said, grinning. His mother’s grin, Yasopp saw, even through the heavy downpour. The rain had soaked into his curls, but the triumphant gleam of that smile had no care for the weather, as he declared, and with a surety that struck like winning shot—

“I’ll take it from here.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the threads are coming together in a tapestry that would give the World Government a collective aneurysm.


	15. maelstrom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!! I wanted to end the year with a big update; I hope you like it! And wherever you are in the world, I hope you have a wonderful celebration!

_“I doubt she survived.”_

The words wedged deep, like a knife slipped so expertly past his defences he didn’t realise at once that he’d been hit, and it took him a moment of just staring at the Den Den Mushi in Blackbeard’s hand for the reality behind them to finally sink in.

Even Teach looked surprised, the glare that had been levelled at the snail faltering. “Overboard?”

The line crackled then; it sounded like it was breaking up.  _“—minor inconvenience, Admi—feeling some of the effects of your—”_

Blackbeard muttered, shaking the snail until its eyes rolled back, but it didn’t do any good. “Damn it. Just deal with Hawk-Eyes, Lafitte.”

 _“—not just Hawk-Eyes,_ ” came the voice, the words distorted, half-jumbled where they struggled over the line. _“The Red-Hair Pirates—”_

Blackbeard looked at Shanks, annoyance deepening into something darker. “So much for following their captain’s orders,” he sneered, as he shoved the snail back into his coat. “Not that it matters. I was going to kill them anyway, but I might have shown them a little mercy. Let whoever wanted to join my crew. You've got some big names under your command. Would be a damn waste to take them out without asking first.”

He might have let the jibe glance right off him, not even bothering to point out how badly that proposition would have been accepted among his men, but with all the separate realisations bearing down on him — his crew fighting, and _Makino_ — and once again unable to do anything, it was the last straw.

Shanks let his anger take him, let it carry him as he shucked his attempt at control, at maintaining focus, everything slipping from slack fingers, every thought and memory he’d used to anchor himself, a fury he’d never felt the likes of tearing through him, parting the calm waters.

Gripping Gryphon until it hurt, Shanks drew a breath and forgot — the wound in his chest, and pacing himself; forgot everything but the anger and the powerlessness, forgot being careful, forgot his strategy to winning and that there was anything beyond the battle right in front of him.

She had to have survived. He couldn’t lose her now, not like this. Not after everything. He wouldn’t come back from it a second time — didn’t think he could, knowing he could have done something, that he’d been given a second chance and had squandered it, taking his time defeating Teach.

This would be his last shot. Whatever the outcome of this battle, whoever was left standing, this would decide it. Shanks just knew it couldn’t be Blackbeard.

And if that meant ending them both, then so be it.

 

—

 

The sky was still in open mourning, the damp cold gathering on his breath, in his lungs and his eyelashes, like tears that weren’t his own, and it took Yasopp a second to realise that the half-croaked, gasping sound that had dragged from him was a laugh.

From his perch on the railing, Usopp’s grin widened.

“Damn good timing,” Yasopp said, the words edged with surprise and half-marvelling pride. His voice choked on his breath, thick with that not-quite-a-laugh.

His son offered him a brief glance, not long enough to take his focus off the sniper on the ship across the water. “I had a feeling you might need some help,” Usopp said, a note of something that hinted at bravado in his voice, although the boasting was a little too loud to be properly convincing, even as he added, breezily and with a smile, quick as a flash of lightning in the grey gloom, “I have a sixth sense for danger.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Yasopp chuckled, cheeks aching, and like the laugh it took him a moment to recognise it as a grin, the realisation so startled it almost slipped right off his face. He hadn’t smiled in weeks.

The one he got in return was sheepish. “Sorry I stole your moment.”

Still grinning, Yasopp shook his head, an old feeling swelling, a rapid tide that pushed with real tears behind his eyes, remembering the woman who’d given him that smile. _I’ll show you how it’s done._

“No you’re not,” he said, fondly.

Usopp’s grin had lost its sheepish tilt, sitting a little prouder on his mouth. “Nah, you’re right. It was kinda cool.”

From across the water, Van Augur was observing them through the rain. He hadn’t made to take another shot, that sharp gaze fixed on Usopp now. The flicker of interest had passed, dripping like the raindrops from his blank features, and replaced by something that looked like thinly veiled annoyance. “Did your parents never teach you not to interrupt when your elders are speaking?”

They shared a grin at that, although where Yasopp’s was a twinge chagrined, Usopp just looked delighted. And a little cheeky. “Not really,” he chirped. “I’m the son of a pirate. What did you expect, manners?”

Despite himself, Yasopp snorted a laugh. It came easier this time, like his body was remembering how to do it. “Damn straight.” Reloading his rifle with a widening grin, “You take the lead,” Yasopp told him. “Let’s see what you can do.”

“Two against one?” Van Augur asked. His finger hadn’t even twitched on the trigger, but Yasopp wasn’t fooled by the outwards show of nonchalance. Usopp’s interference aside, Van Augur didn’t consider himself outnumbered, even as he mused, “Hardly a fair arrangement.”

Yasopp snarled, and fairly spat the words, “We stopped playing fair the moment you bastards laid your hands on her.”

As unfazed by his anger as he was by the rain, Van Augur cocked his head. “Oh?” he asked, the sound lingering a moment on his tongue. “If she’s the one you’re fighting for, I feel I should tell you it won’t make much of a difference. She’s likely dead.”

Yasopp stilled. “What?”

“Last I saw, she went overboard,” Van Augur said, with such an infuriatingly casual lilt, Yasopp was seized with the sudden urge to silence him with a single shot, but his hands were slack around his rifle, the words sinking in. Van Augur wouldn’t have lied to buy himself an opening — he wouldn’t have felt the need to, not when his whole posture suggested he had the upper hand. Which meant it was true.

A frantic glance over the railing gave him no answers, least of all any assurance, the lace-edged crest of the waves where they tossed against the hull yielding nothing but a bottomless void beneath, the sea looking almost black under the overcast sky, like a pot of ink had spilled, staining the hull.

That now-familiar grief reclaimed him, the one that had given way to anger when Blackbeard had dragged her out on deck earlier, and snuffed out the small flicker of stubborn hope that had kindled, despite the odds. He’d never seen Makino swim — realised with a sudden, horrible thought that he didn’t even know if she could.

No — he remembered an old story, one of many from an inebriated and heartsick captain; the exaggerated lamentations of a too-graceful wife, and a marvelling sigh—

 _We went skinny dipping, and she laughed until she cried at my floundering_. _Girl gets seasick standing on the docks, but holy hell she can_ swim!

But even a good swimmer would have trouble staying afloat, with the sea tearing apart at the seams.

“Go,” Usopp said then, drawing his attention back. His son’s gaze was fixed on Van Augur, his balance unwavering on the slippery rail. “I’ll keep him occupied.”

Yasopp shook his head, a protest ready. It wasn’t that he didn’t doubt his son could hold his own, but some fierce, long-buried feeling at the prospect of leaving him to deal with Blackbeard’s sniper alone reared up within him. “Kid—”

“Dad, I’ll be fine,” his son said, cutting him off. That earlier bravado was back, trembling only a little in his voice, before his smile firmed, got comfortable on his mouth. “And anyway—” He glanced over the rail into the water. Through the persistent grip of the rainy fog, Yasopp spied a bright flash of colour, and a familiar ship slipping between the larger vessels with ease, the lion figurehead like a sunburst through the grey and the rain.

Usopp readjusted his goggles. The grin dancing on his lips didn’t budge, bravado easing into confidence, steady as his footing on the rain-soaked railing.

“I’ve got backup.”

 

—

 

They’d slipped in between the ships, riding the waves; Sabo caught sight of them the moment he emerged out onto the main deck, Sunny’s sails looking brighter than anything else, like it had leached all the colour from the rest of the world, to claim it for itself.

Part of him knew he shouldn’t be surprised, his baby brother’s penchant for blatant disregard of the expected taken into consideration, but the past few minutes had done a number on him, and he was still reeling from Dadan’s timely but inexplicable interference.

A glance to his right found her still beside him, watching the chaos unfolding on deck, a crawling ant-nest of panic and rising bloodlust, sitting like a tang in the air, sharper than the salty kiss of the sea where it threw itself against the hull, over the railing and onto the planks, soaking them greedily, as though in contest with the rain.

Fighting had broken out, friend and foe impossible to distinguish through the downpour. Sabo suspected most were Blackbeard’s, and the others had to be the Red-Hair Pirates. He didn’t know what had set off the fighting; the pirate they’d interrogated in the brig had claimed they weren’t supposed to interfere, but that deal looked to have gone to hell.

He wondered if Dadan’s arrival had anything to do with it, but couldn’t figure out where to even begin asking.

Drawing the handkerchief away from his nose, he found it full of blood, the violent colour softened to a gentler pink in the rain, staining the fabric, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped. That was the first thing she’d done, after she’d knocked Burgess out — had pulled it from her pocket, all business, and shoved it up under his nose and told him pointedly to take it, tears in her eyes and her voice rough, before she’d promptly announced that she was looking for Makino. And even with Burgess out cold at her feet and with vengeance left to pay, Sabo had been too dazed to do anything but follow.

Even bloodied, the handkerchief smelled like her — of cigarette smoke and a half remembered childhood. His fingers shook, gripping it, too much raw emotion within him to put into words.

Catching him looking at her now — “What?” Dadan asked gruffly, like her arrival wasn’t the single strangest thing the sea could have dredged up at this very moment.

Sabo had a mind to tell her as much, but what he ended up blurting was, “How—how did you even get here?” Because as strange as her being there was, he couldn’t even begin to imagine _how_ she’d come to be there, in the New World, on _Blackbeard’s ship_. “Did you come alone?”

The look she shot him was a tinge dry, before she swept her gaze across the deck. “I had company,” she said simply. Then when that didn’t seem to placate him, shook her head. “Doesn’t matter how. I’m here. Now where’s Makino?”

Sabo didn’t know if he wanted to push — to say that it did matter, although he didn’t know why it did, or for who it mattered so much; the man he was now, or the boy he’d been — but he was spared having to make a decision when the pirates on deck caught sight of them.

A renewed clamour broke out, surged up like a belly-deep roar that he felt in his gut, and Sabo set his jaw, hastily pocketing the handkerchief as he braced himself for another fight, even as he felt that restless shiver in his blood at the prospect, out on deck and with room to move, no cramped brig to confine him.

Beside him, he felt Dadan do the same, although she had no weapon on her that Sabo could see, and he felt a momentary flicker of worry as one of the pirates tore loose from the churning mass of bodies to charge straight towards them, blade raised.

He’d barely broken from the throng when a gunshot rang out, loud as a thunderclap through the noise and the rain. The pirate fell forward, before more shots followed in quick succession, and his companions followed suit — two, three, four pirates, all felled before they’d even had the chance to turn around and look at their attacker, their bodies slamming into the deck without apology, blood spilling over the planks, before the rain sluiced it away.

The figure standing in their wake didn’t even glance at the fifth pirate he shot at point blank, striding forward through the crowd without pause, seeming to carve his way through Blackbeard’s crew with cold purpose, like a grim reaper veiled by the rain.

Watching the display of calculated ruthlessness, Sabo put himself in front of Dadan, ready to launch himself forward if the pirate turned the pistol on them. If it was a defector — an opportunist in a crew of black, like-minded hearts, seeking a mutiny with the captain away, or not even that but rather whatever gold and treasure the captain hoarded in his quarters — Sabo wasn’t about to count it a blessing, when he might as easily attack them as any of his former crew.

But then the man — for it was a man, Sabo saw; broad-shouldered, and towering a good head above the others, his face full of unforgiving angles — took one look at them and stopped dead in his tracks.

And Sabo didn’t recognise him, but from the way his gaze shifted sideways, he recognised _Dadan_.

“Dadan?” the stranger asked. His voice was deep, laced with a smoker's rasp, and the disbelief in it didn’t sound like it was comfortable there. He had a head of thick silver hair curling at his nape, darkened to pewter by the rain, and a prominent scar on the side of his face. Sabo had the sudden thought he’d seen him somewhere before.

“Ben,” Dadan said, no surprise in her voice, and Sabo started, recognition finding him. Ben Beckman; Red-Hair’s first mate.

Ben spared him a fleeting glance, brows furrowed, but what he asked Dadan was, “What the hell are you doing here?”

Her lip curled, and, “More than you’re doing,” she shot back, although her anger sounded a twinge reluctant. Then, a little less aggressively, “I’m looking for Makino,” she said, although she didn’t seem inclined to tell Ben any more than she’d told Sabo.

For his part, Ben seemed to take her presence and objective in stride. “She’s in the hold. The captain’s quarters."

Sabo was about to confirm the statement when the ship rocked violently, like it had done earlier while he’d been belowdecks, although this time a hand grabbed hold of the back of his coat, keeping him from following suit as the rest of the pirates went tumbling, the whole deck pitching, like a game board flipped sideways, the pieces scattering like marbles.

The hand fisted in the back of his coat released it, and, “What the hell is wrong with this sea?” Dadan shouted over the rain, as the ship began the slow and laborious process of righting itself. Beyond the bow, Sabo spied the cracks in the ocean floor; the deep craters reclaiming the water as the sea reshaped itself.

“It’s not the sea,” Sabo said darkly. He’d felt this power before, the night they’d escaped Baltigo, the whole island coming apart under their feet as they ran. “It’s Blackbeard.”

Dadan looked to Ben, something almost accusatory in her expression. The rain had soaked through her hair, plastering it to her face, the grooves dug deep with something that looked almost like worry. “Red-Hair?” she asked, the gruff grating of her voice broken by a single, tremulous quiver, her irritation betrayed. “He better not be dead.”

Ben wasn’t looking at her, gaze fixed instead on the vivre card he’d dug from his pocket, one side burning steadily, even in the rain. Sabo didn’t need to ask whose it was, but couldn’t decide whether to be relieved more than half of the card was left, or concerned that it was burning at all, even as Ben lifted his eyes to the sea across the bow, and said gravely, “Not yet.”

“Well, I’m not going to sit here waiting for it,” Dadan said, flinging a hand out, as though to gesture to the ship as a whole. “We’ve—”

Whatever she’d been about to say was swallowed by the sound of a gunshot, so loud it seemed for a moment to banish the droning of the rain and the ships, and the pirates on deck scrambling to stay on their feet.

Sabo felt the life it took, extinguished like a candle flame pinched sharply between two fingers, gone so quickly he’d barely had time to register it. It had been there all along, sitting unnoticed under the churning chaos of two crews clashing, like a rip current lurking beneath the surface, waiting. An observation user, he realised, skilled at cloaking their own presence, before a bullet had brought it into the open, and ended it in a single breath. But Sabo had felt it as it had vanished.

And by the look on his face, so had Ben.

 

—

 

The ship lurched like the sea beneath it, tilting sideways so sharply it caught his breath, and Yasopp forgot what he’d been about to do, thoughts snatched as he was forced to grab onto the railing to keep himself from going over the side.

The sudden loss of equilibrium left him reeling, mind struggling to catch up with the rest of him, but Red Force stayed upright, even as she leaned heavily to the side, her timbers wailing, as though in protest.

The earthquake had brought the ships closer, the Straw Hats’ caged in the middle, Yasopp saw as he looked over the railing into the water. Gripping his rifle, he made to push himself up, knowing intimately the folly of taking his eyes off a sniper for even a second, but he’d barely finished the thought before the sound of a gunshot caught up with it, bringing him back to himself, and just in time to see Usopp tumble off the railing onto the deck with a pained shout, clutching his shoulder.

Blood mingled with the rainwater, staining the planks a bright, unforgiving red, and Yasopp felt as his breath rushed out, holding his son’s name.

“Sharp reflexes,” Van Augur called over the din. A note of irritation had crept into the level cadence of his voice. “Sharper than your old man’s, anyhow. But no matter,” he said, as he aimed the rifle, “I won’t miss a third time. That the necessity of that statement is required says something about your skill, I’ll give you that much, but you’ve a long way to go before you can test your merit against the best, boy.”

He didn’t know what seized him — not the usual calm that preceded a killing shot, the one he sought within him; that cool detachment that had never let his finger waver on the trigger. This was something else, some instinct that ran deeper than the one he’d spent ten years honing, a surge of _feeling_ that was anything but detached, but that claimed all of him, and with a roar rising from deep in his chest he’d shoved to his feet.

The raindrops stilled; the sea ceased moving. The ship’s pulse dulled, and in the untraceable sliver of space between seconds, Yasopp pulled the trigger.

This time, he wasn’t too slow.

Van Augur’s body toppled over the railing into the sea, but Yasopp didn’t wait to watch it take him as he ran for Usopp, scrambling to search out the wound, his fingers stiff with the cold and shaking from the adrenaline coursing through his system.

Usopp’s agonised protest didn’t stop him as he wiped away the blood, before it pooled again, thick and crimson bright before the rain thinned it. The bullet had gone through his shoulder, just above his heart, and his relief was so violent Yasopp almost bent over and emptied his stomach right on the planks.

“ _Hurts_ —”

He didn’t know if he was sobbing or laughing. “I know,” he said, voice rasping, shaking like his hands where he pressed them to the wound. “I know, kid. Being shot hurts like hell. I’ll tell you the story of the time I took a bullet in the ass. Couldn’t sit down for a week. Captain didn’t stop laughing for a week, either. Payback for all the amputee jokes, I guess. A word of advice; always look behind you when you’re running from a navy division with sharpshooters. I swear to this day the guy didn’t miss — he aimed.”

He was rambling, he knew, barely a pause for breath between the words, but the pained smile that flitted across his son’s face felt like a small victory.

“N-no offence, dad, but you’re—kind of ruining the cool image I have of you,” Usopp wheezed, before he winced. His teeth were chattering, and talking had to hurt, but at least he was, Yasopp thought. The bleeding wasn’t stopping, but he needed to keep him conscious, at least until he could get help.

Yasopp snorted; it sounded distinctly like a sob this time. “Oh, my dear boy, I have so many stories for you, there’ll be nothing left of that image when I’m done.”

Doc was there then, seeming to have materialised out of the rain. Yasopp hadn’t even noticed him coming, too distracted by his son bleeding out on the deck, but then he was kneeling beside them, prying his hands away from Usopp’s shoulder.

“Through-and-through,” he noted, with what looked like a satisfied nod. Then with a glance at Yasopp, thick brows quirking in an acutely dry look, despite the water running down his face, “Unlike that time you took a bullet to the ass. I had to dig that out with my own two hands.”

“No need for explicit details,” Yasopp told him, feigning indignation, but Doc only snorted. And the unflappable ease was a fierce comfort; there were few things in this world that could rattle Doc, and Yasopp felt the assurance as it was implied, in the steady hands staunching the wound in his son's shoulder.

“You’re the one who brought it up," Doc reminded him. "I heard you, coming over. And I’m the one who has to live with those explicit details — you were sedated through the whole surgery. Lucky bastard.”

His laugh this time didn't require effort. And oh, it felt _good_ — felt familiar, some of their old ease having come back, when he’d thought it lost forever.

But the thought brought him to another, having been pushed aside with his son’s injury claiming all his attention, but it caught up with him now, and without mercy, remembering the reason none of them had felt like themselves in weeks — the thing that had been missing from their lives, like they’d had the heart ripped out of the soul of their crew.

“Makino?” Yasopp asked. “They said she went overboard.”

Doc glanced up from where he was applying pressure on Usopp’s shoulder. He looked surprised; an odd thing in and of itself. “What?”

Yasopp meant to say something, when the rain suddenly stopped — halted, like a tap had been turned off. Then, before their eyes, the storm clouds began dispersing, stretching thin like cotton, the sky still overcast, but quiet, like someone had wrung the very last drops of moisture from it.

Yasopp stared up at the sky, the incredulous mutter escaping under his breath, “What the hell?” Around them, the deck had gone completely still, the sudden shock of the abrupt change in weather seeming to have left a vacuum of confusion.

Usopp coughed then, a grin breaking through the pain on his face. His eyes were blank, his expression a little delirious, but Yasopp recognised the satisfaction in the slant of his smile, as he said, still grinning — “Told you I had backup.”

 

—

 

Nami counted coins under her breath, an old, familiar trick of focusing her concentration, keeping her thoughts on a straight path as she fought to follow the whims of the sea, the pull of the water in her blood like a delicate wire, so fragile just the barest slip in attention would snap it.

“Five-hundred-and-forty-six, five-hundred-and-forty-seven…” All solid gold, all gleaming, neat stacks lining the hoard of her thoughts, not one out of place. _Five-hundred-and-forty-eight_ , and she turned the wheel, fingers tapping the spokes in time with her counting. _Five-hundred-and-forty-nine_ , and she waited. Listened.

The rain made it difficult to discern anything beyond the violent heave of the sea, and the ships they’d crept between, rising out of the water like two gargantuan beasts. Her fingers were cold where she clung to the wheel, and even with her counting it was taking most of her concentration just to stay on her feet. She was steering them forward on pure instinct, sea senses sharpened to a quill’s tip, but with every breath, her focus threatened to slip. How did you judge the water, when the ground beneath it couldn’t stay still?

Casting her eyes over Sunny’s deck, she did a quick headcount, coins exchanged for something more valuable — devil fruit users first, to make sure no one had gone in the water, before the rest followed, all but one accounted for, including herself. But Usopp had gone ahead; before they’d even fully reached Red Force he’d gone suddenly quiet, before announcing that he had to go, and hadn’t waited to explain before he’d disappeared amidst the rain.

Nami hoped he was okay. From the ships above, she could hear the sounds of fighting — multiple voices raised above the roar of the sea, and the shrieking laments of the timbers accompanying the chorus, the ships wailing like banshees. Two of the strongest crews on the Grand Line were clashing, and there they were, right in the middle of it.

“This might not be the best idea we’ve ever had,” she murmured, with a furtive glance at Luffy, standing off to her right. He was staring at the nearest ship. “Putting ourselves right in the middle of two Emperors.”

He didn't look at her. “I don’t care,” he said. Not unkindly, just with that level, decisive lilt his voice sometimes got. But despite his outward calm, Nami saw his fingers where they twitched at his sides, before curling to fists. “Blackbeard destroyed Fuschia,” he said. Something rough and hurt coated the words, hitching in his voice. “And…Shanks and Ma-chan—”

He didn’t finish, but Nami didn’t need him to. That loss was still fresh, and even knowing she wasn’t dead wouldn’t erase it from his memory. He’d suffered it; had watched Red-Hair suffer the same. You didn’t just bounce back from something like that, not even Luffy, but determination had sharpened what remained of his grief, a determination Nami knew, that she recognised, and there was some comfort in that, even as they wilfully sailed right into the heart of a battle that was literally tearing the sea apart.

But Luffy couldn’t have been dissuaded, not for anything in the world. Shakky hadn’t been very specific in her message, but Dragon seemed certain in his belief that wherever Blackbeard was, they’d find Red-Hair’s wife — and Red-Hair’s ship, as turned out to be the case, although where its captain was, Nami didn’t know. She couldn’t see him anywhere, but whatever was happening to the sea, those unnatural earthquakes that even she couldn't predict, that had to be Blackbeard. And wherever Blackbeard was—

“Which ship would she be on?” Luffy asked then, turning towards her. There was something in his expression, that fiercely determined yet startlingly vulnerable look that had made itself comfortable there since Shakky’s call.

Nami looked up at the enormous vessels looming above them. Sunny looked so small in comparison, like a sloop next to a warship. “The biggest would be Blackbeard’s,” she said, pointing at the one closest to theirs. A strange design, seeming half ship and half raft, with pitch black sails sagging from the rain. The three-headed jolly roger peered down at them ominously. “So I would guess that one.”

Stepping up on her other side, Zoro made a grunt of affirmation, having followed the direction of her gaze. “Seems fair. Let’s go.”

“ _You_ ,” Nami told him, pointing, “aren’t going anywhere on your own. Next you know, you’ll be on Red Force instead.”

The look he shot her was annoyed. “I can pick out Red-Hair’s crew from Blackbeard’s.”

“You can’t pick out your left from your right,” Nami countered, breezing right past his irritation. “There’s no way we’re letting you loose on your own.”

“Don’t worry, Nami-san,” Sanji said, coming up from the lawn deck, a cigarette already lit, despite the rain. The gravity of the situation didn’t seem to faze him, but then that was the case for most of her crew, Nami conceded with an old, wry feeling. “The idiot won’t cause trouble. Leave it to me.”

Zoro’s deadpan look was ignored, like his low mutter. “Oi—”

“Tell me, Luffy,” Sanji said then, seriously. “Is she pretty?”

Luffy blinked. “Who?”

Sanji was looking up at the ship. He took a long drag of his cigarette before answering, his voice pitched low. “Red-Hair’s wife. Makino-chan.”

Seeing where this was likely going, Nami fixed Luffy with a warning look. “Don’t—”

“Yeah,” Luffy said, and Nami pinched the bridge of her nose.

Sanji exhaled heavily. “I see.” Then, voice raised to an alarming, shrill pitch, _“Fear not, for I’m on my way, Makino-chan~!”_

Nami had the back of his jacket gripped before he could take a single step. “Don’t even think about it.”

“Put it back in your pants, Cook,” Zoro said, but when he made to move across the deck, Nami grabbed onto his coat with her free hand.

“You’re no better!” she snapped, as she physically yanked them both back, despite their protests. “I can’t believe I have to herd the two of you while we’re in the middle of a naval battle!” She gave them both a shake for good measure. “ _With Emperors_!”

Luffy nodded then, as though to himself. “Okay,” he said firmly, with the weight of a decision having been made, as he looked up at Blackbeard’s ship. He pointed. “Then we’ll all go on that one.”

Nami was about to agree, before she stopped, dread dawning on her a second too late as Luffy gave a roll of his shoulders. “Wait, what you do you mean _all_ —”

The question lodged in her throat as his arm cinched around her waist in an all too familiar vice, and she caught both Sanji and Zoro’s startled oaths as they realised what he meant to do but were too late to pull free, and the last coin (six-hundred-and-seventy-two) dropped from her fingers with the scream that tore from her chest, toppling the neatly organised stacks in her mind as they were all catapulted from the deck into the air.

 

—

 

The keening _shriek_ that cut through the rain drew their attention, but the sound had barely had time to settle before something hit the deck right beside them, as though having been propelled through the air, but it didn’t take Sabo more than a glance to know who it was, recognising the bright red shirt, and the straw hat soaking up the rain.

“Luffy!”

Lifting his gaze at the sound of his name, those owlish eyes blinked once, before they found Sabo’s, and his brother did a double-take. “Sabo?!” But before he could ask anything else, he noticed the woman standing next to him, and this time actually did take a step back in surprise. “ _Dadan?!_ ”

The three people he’d brought on deck with him staggered out of his arms with varying degrees of grace, before the navigator reached out to knock him over the head. “A warning next time!” But then she noticed Sabo, and beside him, Ben and Dadan, and her anger left, as quick as it had come.

Blinking, she pushed her hair out of her eyes, confusion shaping her features for a single second, before she looked to Ben, and with her next breath, her flustered surprise had let slip a curiously calculating expression. “Status report?”

Ben didn’t miss a beat. “Captain made a deal. Ceasefire broke. Shit’s gone sideways.”

She squinted through the rain. Sabo could almost see the wheels turning behind her eyes. “How many?”

“Three enemy ships in total,” Ben said, before sliding a look at Dadan. “We’ve had some unexpected assistance on our side.”

Nami gave Dadan a perfunctory glance, but didn’t ask. Instead, she frowned up at the sky, mouth pursed with mild irritation. “All this rain is making it hard to think,” she said, like someone might comment on an ill-fitting garment, as though remarking on something that could be changed, and not something that was entirely out of their hands.

But then she was drawing out a weapon, and with a flick of her wrist had assembled a staff, unlike anything Sabo had ever seen, but she didn’t pause to explain as she made a sudden flourish, and Sabo watched, eyes widening, as the rain suddenly lifted, leaving the deck awash in cold grey light as the clouds above thinned, the sky wrung like a rag.

Looking pleased, in part due to their open-mouthed surprise, Sabo suspected, she pushed her hair over one shoulder, before casting a sweeping glance over the deck. Her eyes narrowed as she took in the fighting that was still going on, some of the pirates having stopped what they were doing to watch the skies, before her gaze came back to settle on the odd group of people gathered.

Luffy was still looking between Sabo and Dadan, gaping.

Dadan gave him a once-over; she didn’t seem surprised to find him there any more than she had Ben, although the expression on her face suggested anything but indifference. “You’re still skinny as a twig,” she told him, her voice thick. She gestured to Sabo. “Your brother’s a damn tree. You sure you’re eating?”

Nami let slip a soft snort at that. She was wringing the rain from her hair. “When isn’t he eating?”

Luffy’s mouth worked, but whatever he wanted to say, couldn’t seem to find his voice.

Sabo didn’t blame him.

More of the Straw-Hats were on deck then, having followed their captain, several of them surprised at finding Sabo there.

Robin took it all in without breaking stride, level gaze shifting across the deck, before coming to rest on Sabo. A single line had formed between her brows, as though she sensed that something was off. “Koala with you?” she asked.

The mention brought him back — shook him loose of some of the shock that still gripped him, at least enough to realise what he’d been doing before Dadan had interrupted. But looking around them, he couldn’t spot her anywhere, even with the rain gone.

She might still be belowdecks, if she hadn’t yet found a way out. He had half a mind to turn back to look for her, but stopped himself. They still needed to find Makino, and Koala was better equipped at holding her own, although even as he thought it, he remembered her broken fingers, and between the fighting on deck and the tilting sea, it didn’t exactly settle his worries.

The others were talking, voices raised in surprise and confusion. Having gotten over his initial shock, Luffy was asking what Dadan was doing there, and what had happened, where Red-Hair was, and Makino, too many questions for her to answer, rushing out of him in a way Sabo hadn’t heard since they’d been kids, and there were too many things happening, and so fast he could barely keep up with all of it.

He felt his head spinning, trying to make sense of it all — not just Dadan, but the Straw Hats. The Red-Hair Pirates, and Koala. Blackbeard and Red-Hair, wherever they were, but more than anything, Makino—

“Sabo?” Luffy was asking then, the quiet query slipping through the chaos of his thoughts, but before Sabo could even open his mouth to answer—

“Explanations later,” Dadan interrupted, with a familiar impatience that made his heart constrict with some old, nearly forgotten feeling. “First, we find Makino.”

Ben was already moving, no doubt to seek the captain’s quarters, but he hadn’t gotten far before a voice called from over the railing, and Sabo blinked, before realising with a start that it was calling for _him._

Stepping closer, he looked down into the water. Sunny had planted itself right between the ships, but with the rain having lifted it was possible to see more than just the violent toss of the waves, and it didn’t take him long for his focus to single in on a flash of pink, and a familiar shape.

Surprise coloured her name bright. “Koala!”

She was looking up at the ship, treading water as she tried to stay afloat, seeming wholly uncaring of her injured hand, and even with the distance to the water and the hair plastered to her face, the distress contorting her features was evident.

His mind was scrambling for the reason, and why she would be in the water, when she called again, the words clearer now where they reached towards him — “I can’t find her!”

He frowned, but confusion only had him for a second before realisation shoved it away, understanding just who she had to be talking about, the only one she _could_ be talking about, and even as he fought to catch up with everything that was happening, his body reacted before his mind had fully accepted what she was telling him.

He was making for the railing, but before he could even toe off his boots her voice drifted up from the water, cleaving shrilly through the damp air.

“ _What are you doing_?! You can’t swim!” she shrieked, and Sabo halted, already halfway over the railing, numbed with a sudden, chilling helplessness that clenched his hands on the banister, knuckles white under his skin.

He’d never regretted eating his brother’s devil fruit, but it was regret he felt now, sharp and unforgiving, watching Koala’s shape in the near-black water and having to physically hold himself back from jumping in despite the crippling truth having frozen his limbs stiff.

There was a flurry of movement to his left, but Luffy’s navigator had his arms in a deadlock before he could even reach the railing. “Idiot!” she snapped, as she put all her weight on his back, as though to physically weigh him down. “You can’t swim, either!”

Luffy didn’t seem to care, trashing in her grip. “Damn it, Nami, let me go—!”

Ben was pulling off his boots then, but before he could jump into the water, something broke through the surface, not far from Koala — a figure, silver hair gleaming and glasses askew, and Luffy drew back, a choked sound of surprise escaping him. Nami still had him in a chokehold. “ _Rayleigh_?”

“Wondered where he’d disappeared off to,” Dadan said from beside him, but Sabo wasn’t given the chance to even think about asking, or even to fully wrap his mind around just _who_ he was looking at, the only Rayleigh it could be, as the sight of the body in his arms stole whatever he’d been about to say, and Luffy exclaimed loudly, the distress in his voice breaking it—

“Ma-chan!”

“Damn it,” Dadan bit off the words, leaning over the railing, hard gaze fixed on the small shape in Rayleigh’s arms, still and pale, her hair as dark as the sea around her. “She’s been in the water too long.”

The sound of weapons clashing broke through the anguish rising within him, drawing Sabo’s attention momentarily away from Makino in the water, and he spun around to find one of Blackbeard’s crew there, having just slipped out of the way of a great, sweeping blade. The wings sprouting from his back spread wide, before he launched himself backwards, only to land, light as a bird on the railing to their left.

Sabo frowned. _A zoan user?_

“More company,” Lafitte mused, watching the group that had gathered, but the tension in his brow betrayed his attempted calm. The cane in his hand looked slightly bent, and Sabo saw there was blood on his white shirt, seeping through the wet fabric.

From across the deck stepped another figure, a tall shadow that ate up the light, the weight of a massive broadsword resting on one shoulder, like a heavy cross. He carried it with ease, footfalls steady on the rain-slicked planks.

“There you are,” Dadan grunted, before Sabo could even properly react.

Zoro’s exclamation echoed the shock erupting across his face — and all the others. “ _Mihawk_?”

Hawk-Eyes spared him a single glance, not so much as a flicker of surprise at finding them there, and only now did Sabo see the slight tension in his expression, a single, near-imperceptible fissure running between his severe brows hinting at strain, but, “Roronoa,” he said mildly. There was blood on his blade, trickling down the length to drip onto the wet planks. “Watch your posture. You still slouch.”

Ignoring Zoro’s splutter, Hawk-Eyes looked to Ben. “Red-Hair?” he asked.

Ben didn’t seem surprised to find him there — not like he’d been with Dadan. “Still alive,” he said, with a certainty that didn’t hesitate a single beat, but he didn’t seem inclined to share anything else, his focus distracted. He was looking over the side, his brow pulled down over his eyes. Sabo watched as Rayleigh made a sign towards Red-Hair’s ship. The body in his arms didn’t move, and he felt something cinch around his windpipe.

Then Ben was moving, and, “Sink this vessel,” he told Luffy in passing, not even pausing to wait for a response or to give further instructions, although Sabo doubted Luffy needed more incentive than that — doubted he needed more incentive than Makino.

He saw Dadan move to follow, before she stopped. She hesitated, looking between him and Luffy, and seemed about to say something, before she gave them a sharp nod, and followed after Ben.

“Nami,” Luffy said, sounding unusually calm. He was still looking at the water where Rayleigh had emerged with Makino. “Go with Chopper.”

She didn’t hesitate, as she turned to the little reindeer. “Aye, Captain.”

Luffy looked to Sabo next, a wordless question asked, no mischief in his expression but something harder, but Sabo understood both. “Oh, I’ve been waiting for this,” he said, rolling his shoulders. Then to Luffy, “You ready to take down an Emperor?”

Luffy’s nod was tight. There was no smile on his face when he answered, “Yeah.”

Lafitte was still regarding them from the railing, a strange, birdlike observation, although there was something distinctly uncanny about it, Sabo thought, taking in that inhuman grace, and the keen look that felt like it went beyond his skin. Whatever devil fruit he'd eaten, it wasn't a common one.

“A curious entourage,” Lafitte mused, looking between them. “We shall see if it is enough. I have already sent for the others. You will soon see what the true force of a king of the sea looks like.” He twirled his crooked cane between his hands. “And you will wish you accepted your fates as they were decided for you; the mercy of a swift death at the Admiral’s hands.”

“You talk a lot,” Luffy said.

A soft snort. “Indeed,” Hawk-Eyes agreed, as he shifted his grip on his sword. “I will finish him,” he told them, before looking to Zoro. “There are two more ships.” Then, and with something that could almost be mistaken for amusement as he strode towards Lafitte, “Do not get lost.”

A muscle in Zoro’s cheek twitched, and Sabo caught him grumbling under his breath, but before he could move across the deck, Luffy’s hand fisted in the back of his coat, dragging him back.

“We’re taking the one on the other side!” Luffy said, before he took off running, sights set on one of the other ships, Zoro on his heels, his swords unsheathed. Robin offered Sabo a small smile before she moved to follow with Franky and Sanji, the last having to be physically hauled away from the railing so as not to jump in the water, a lingering cry lamenting a gentleman’s sacred duty drifting back across the deck.

Sabo was about to take off for the third, when something stopped him.

Burgess stood before the hatch they’d climbed up. He was bleeding from the head, one of his teeth knocked loose, and his grin trembled, an ugly rictus across his face.

“You,” he rasped, laughing. His voice still sounded hoarse, and a necklace of bruises circled his throat from Sabo’s earlier grip, “are really starting to piss me off.”

Sabo clenched his fists, feeling how they shook. His whole body trembled from unreleased tension. “I’m just now starting to?” he asked. “I haven’t been doing a good enough job, then.”

The sneer he got held none of Burgess’ earlier, confident glee, but, “You’re weak as shit,” he said, thumbing away the trickle of blood from his nose. “You would have been dead if you hadn’t had help.” He cast his eyes over the deck, no doubt looking for whoever had knocked him out earlier, but Dadan was gone.

Sabo allowed a small smile to grace his lips. “Probably.” He cracked his knuckles; felt how his fingers twitched with anticipation. “But we’ll see if I’m as weak as you say.”

He got a laugh for that, as Burgess drew his shoulders back, seeming to ready himself. “Yeah? Come on then,” he snarled, before he shoved forward.

Sabo met the blow head on, armament haki thrown up like a shield, and felt his smile break into a grin as he shoved Burgess back.

The surprise that warped his features was a welcome sight, but Sabo didn’t wait to bask in the satisfaction as he reached within him for the powers that waited, impatient like a hungry, leaping flame.

He tried not to think about Makino, and if she would be okay. He couldn’t think about that, or he wouldn’t be able to focus, even as the guilt burned away his insides, thinking that he could have been quicker — that if they hadn’t spent so long in the brig, they might have reached her earlier.

He allowed his anger to burn hotter than his guilt, as he reached for Burgess, burning hands seeking bare skin to brand. He could feel the heat building, bringing the blood in his veins to a boil, a restless, simmering fury that didn’t leave much in its wake but a growing need to let it _out_ , all the things he'd been hoarding within him since he’d lost against Blackbeard on that island, and had nursed his failure behind the bars of a cell, unable to do anything but wait.

He was done sitting still. And this time, he didn’t need to hold back.

Fingers clamping around the back of Burgess’ neck, the acrid smell of burning hair filling his nostrils as a pained sound choked from his chest, Sabo drew breath into his lungs, then held it, the roaring inferno within him quieting, along with everything around him. Like a living flame coaxed slowly into a single, white-hot ember, nothing but darkness around it.

And then he lit the world on fire.

 

—

 

Ben didn’t look back at the ship as the flames enveloped it, but he felt the heat behind him, the sheer, merciless intensity of it where it ate up the air, the fire like a physical thing, shoving him forward.

He hit the deck of Red Force running, his knees protesting the brutal impact, but he didn’t pause even for breath as he tore towards the foredeck where the rest of his crew, at least those that weren’t still on the other ships, had gathered around Rayleigh, and the still-unmoving body in his arms.

“No time for the infirmary,” Doc’s voice was snapping then, as he strode forward, shouldering through the throng without apology, his sleeves already rolled up. Yasopp was there, too — and his son, Ben saw, nursing a bandaged shoulder. Doc had been tending to it, from the looks of things, but now the little reindeer in Luffy’s crew crouched in his place.

“Put her down,” Doc said, and Rayleigh complied, a grave expression twisting his usually-smiling features, and Ben shoved through the pirates hovering around them, no mind to offer the sharp look Doc shot him, and the silent suggestion that he was just taking up space, unwilling to back off, to sit on his hands, even as he couldn’t use them for anything else, as Doc set about checking her airways.

Makino didn’t stir, unresponsive even as Doc started the chest compressions, her features slack and her lashes darkening her cheeks. The last time Ben had seen her like this was when Ace had been born, when she’d nearly slipped away in the process. And he hadn’t doubted Doc then, but it was difficult grounding himself in that certainty now, watching Makino, out of the water but not out of its grip.

The seconds ticked by, too long to bear counting. She still wasn’t breathing, and she looked pale — not her usual moon-white complexion, but the sickly pallor every sailor knows to recognise, of souls that have lost against the sea, a grey tinge that seemed to have leached all the life out of her face. Pale against her dark hair, wet strands clinging to her brow, smooth as though she was asleep.

The cuts bisecting her cheek stood out in violent contrast, bloody and red, even as the bruises around them looked dulled. Ben couldn’t stop staring at them.

Doc’s continued attempts still hadn’t borne results, and it felt like the whole deck was holding its breath; Ben felt his own, a stab of pain in his chest.

“Damn it,” Doc bit the words in half, rescue breaths yielding nothing, before he moved back to chest compressions, the jolt of the pressure put on her chest jarring her limbs, but nothing else. Her eyes remained shut, her mouth parted slightly, like she might draw breath at any moment, but the seconds slipped by and Makino remained unmoving, not breathing.

Bile inched up his throat; Ben felt the sharp taste, felt the bitter helplessness where it coated his tongue and clogged his chest, and the sudden, reckless urge to reach for Doc’s hands, to tug them away, to insist he do it himself, even as he knew it wouldn’t make a difference.

“You’re not doing this,” Ben told her, before he was even aware he was speaking. His voice broke, crumbling over the words. “Not you.”

Makino didn’t answer. There was none of that soft, quiet cheek, her eyes twinkling — _you're shedding tears for me, Ben Beckman?_ — no matter how much he willed it forth, willed her to just _open her eyes._

They couldn’t lose her like this, to something like this, a fierce disbelief filling him, leaving him feeling suddenly impulsive, as though he was a second away from reaching out to shake her back into consciousness. As though he could.

Someone behind him choked off a sob; Ben heard it echoed across the pirates gathered, even as he was only vaguely aware of more people crowding them. He thought he heard Luffy arriving, and Dadan’s raspy timbre cutting through the raised voices of the crew, their distress sharp, urgent. Loud, but a wrong kind of loud, but then everything was _wrong_ , had been wrong for weeks, and when it had finally begun to feel as though something was going _right_ —

Ben couldn’t think, the mind that never stopped churning curiously blank. He couldn’t look away from her face, still as though already in death. He wouldn’t forgive himself if they lost her now. He didn’t think Shanks would, either; didn't think he could, if he lived to suffer the loss a second time.

 _If he lived_ , came his next thought, as unkind as the first, but Ben couldn’t save his captain’s life any more than he could save the one slipping out right before his eyes. And all at once, the combined weight of his powerlessness was too much to bear, was too much for one heart to endure, that had already grieved so much.

The vivre card in his pocket kept burning, and Makino’s chest lay still.

He couldn’t lose them both.

“Goddamnit, Makino!” Doc shouted then, that ever-steady composure slipping more than Ben had ever seen it do, and there was a harsh note in his usually level voice when he spat it out, “ _Breathe_!”

She didn’t, but Doc didn’t stop trying. Exertion tensed the muscles in his forearms, in his brow and neck. He’d set his jaw tight, and there were tears slipping down to gather in his beard, but he didn’t pause once, the numbers counted under his breath where it left him, heavy and ragged, a stark efficiency in the movements that refused to waver, even as the rest of them faltered, one by one. What good were they, as her crew, that they couldn’t even save her now?

The tears he’d been holding back for weeks came, and Ben didn't stop them. He didn’t have any strength left to hold them off, all of it trickling out along with what remained of his will. But Doc kept going, didn’t stop even as Ben felt the others yielding, a growing acceptance imprinting the quiet with ugly, broken sobs.

He felt as someone shoved past him, noted the rain-soaked straw hat hanging over a bent back, and heard the voice calling her name shrilly. The boy who would be king but who was in that moment no more than a boy, but Luffy shouted until his voice was hoarse from it, refusing surrender even as Ben closed his eyes, recognising a losing battle, finally understanding that there was no winning this, if they lost her — that in losing her, they had already lost.

 

—

 

She was floating.

No—that wasn’t right. It just felt like she was floating, but when she blinked her eyes open it was to find a naked sky peering down at her, and something soft pushing up under her back.

 _Sand_ , Makino realised slowly. She felt the way it yielded beneath her, and the water where it kissed the shore, nudging her body gently. Confusion trickled through her realisation where it struggled to reach her. Was she lying in the surf? How had she gotten there?

“Hey,” said a voice, somewhere above her head. There was laughter in it. “A little early for you to be here.”

A shadow obscured the blushing sun where it idled in the sky above the waiting horizon (it was wrong, the thought struck her — it had been morning, last she remembered; a bright, bloody dawn, and a stormy sea), and she squinted her eyes, trying to make out the shape leaning over her.

The face looked familiar, although she couldn’t for the life of her remember where she’d seen it. A strong jaw and brow caged his features; he had a sharp, beautiful nose that commanded attention, and liquid-dark eyes brimming over with laughter. A thick, black moustache covered his upper lip, curling at the corners, and lifted cheerfully when he smiled.

He was observing her intently, seeming to take her in as she did the same, although there was no confusion on his face, Makino saw. Just that wide, curiously knowing grin.

“You know,” he said, musingly. He had a nice voice, rich and lovely; honey and a good scotch that lingered like laughter in your belly. “I always told that kid he was too pretty for his own good. Glad to see he went and found himself a match.”

The way he spoke suggested familiarity, as though they shared some common ground, but she didn’t know him, Makino was strangely sure of that, and couldn’t wring meaning from his words when he offered them.

She didn’t understand what was going on, and meant to tell him, but couldn’t seem to locate her voice. It wasn’t that she couldn’t form the words, it was just that she couldn’t draw breath to speak; as though her whole chest had turned to stone, her lungs encased, unyielding. _She couldn’t breathe_.

She lurched upright — or tried to, but her body felt too heavy, and she bucked against the invisible weight pressing her down, like something was sitting on her chest.

“Hey—hey! _Easy_.”

The voice reached her, pitched low, like soothing a startled animal, and there were hands on her shoulders, large and warm. They were holding her down, firmly but not ungently, although Makino didn’t still her thrashing, panic and desperation leaving her half-wild from the need to draw breath.

“Can’t blame her,” drawled a different voice then, from somewhere above her — a woman’s voice this time, a voice she _knew_ , Makino realised with a sudden shock, and went still under the stranger’s hold, as it added dryly, “No one wants to have your mug be the first thing they see when they wake up, Roger.”

The man _laughed_ , an uproarious sound that had no care for how loud it was, and something about it prickled at the back of her mind, plucking at strings whose notes she used to know, and there was a sudden, fierce ache in her heart. She knew someone who laughed like that.

“You say that, but I didn’t hear you complaining the times we shacked up,” came the man’s voice then, directed at the other speaker, the one whose name felt like it perched on the very tip of her tongue.

There was a sound — a sharp, bright cackle, trilling with derision, but there was good humour in it, too, softening it from being truly cutting. “I was younger then,” the woman retorted. “Had less sense.”

She knew that voice. She _knew_ that voice, so why couldn’t she—

“I was about to ask if it would kill you to be a little nicer, but then I remembered where we are,” the man mused.

“Your humour is still terrible posthumously,” snorted the woman, not a beat missed.

Another loud wave of laughter rolled out of him; Makino felt it in the hands on her shoulders. “Shit. You’re mean, Suze,” sighed the man, sounding anything but offended. Just delighted, if a little wistful. “I always said that’s what I liked most about you.”

That cackle again, but softer now. “Flatterer. Careful, or I’ll tell that wife of yours.”

“She’d agree with me,” chirped the man. “You’re still a sight, even in death. Just her type, too. Likes 'em wild and dark. Or so she says.”

There was another snort, but for some reason Makino thought it sounded pleased — as though she knew the voice well enough to be able to pick out the subtleties in it; the things unspoken, said with gestures and looks, scoffs and grunts, this inflection and that.

The object of their conversation eluded her, but the sense of familiarity persisted, unnerving, like an unspoken question that she was supposed to know the answer to, but couldn’t find it where it should be.

The man had taken his hands off her shoulders, and she found that she could breathe now, although it didn’t feel right, the fresh air not quite as it should be, but she couldn’t put her finger on what was off about it.

“ _Tch_ ,” clucked a tongue, sharp like the lash of a whip. “She’s slipping. Better she feel what’s happening to her. It’s when you get comfortable that you surrender.”

The man said nothing to that, but she heard footsteps in the sand, and felt as someone knelt beside her. They hadn’t seen fit to move her out of the water; Makino found it a little strange, but even though she could breathe, she still couldn’t seem to summon her voice.

There was a hand on her brow then, a rough, weathered palm, and thick callouses scraping her skin, but the face that swam before her eyes was unfamiliar. Fiercely beautiful, young where it shouldn’t be (why did she think that?), but nothing delicate in the arrangement of her features, her brows thick and severe where they arched above her eyes, black as a crow’s, and below which sat a grin like a shark’s.

“Not your time yet, kid,” the woman said, in the voice that invoked brine and rough sailing, and ships shattering on the rocks. Makino knew it — something in her _reacted_ to it, a name that wanted to be shaped on her tongue but that wouldn’t sit still long enough to let her.

A sigh eased out of her, sounding older than she looked. The hand on her brow smoothed over it, to run through her hair, snagging lightly in the tangles before she brought it back, as though to shield her eyes from the sun. It hadn't moved an inch towards the horizon. “You weren’t raised to fight like this, Ma-chan,” she said, an endearment that wanted to be teasing but that only sounded sad — and for a second, achingly, desperately fond. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t have it in you. I never knew a stronger, more stubborn heart. You gonna take dying lying down? After all this?”

Makino felt as her brows furrowed, drawing together under the weight of that rough palm. She had the sudden, almost childish urge to snap back — to say that she was a grown woman, and that she’d never taken anything lying down, although at that thought followed another, the startled premonition of what saying that would earn her; a loud, trilling cackle and an arched brow, and _Oh no? Not even Red?_

Bewildered, she was still grappling for answers, for all of it to make sense, but she didn’t need it to feel indignation, an almost petulant reaction, but she grasped it now, suddenly annoyed that this woman should suggest she’d give up without a fight.

And so, “ _No_ ,” Makino croaked, defiant, and thought she caught the flash of a grin. Sharp, devouring. _Pleased._

“There’s a girl,” laughed the not-stranger, the words too rough to be tender but still managing somehow, before the grin hardened, a no-nonsense set to her jaw that had no patience for anything but agreement, as she snapped, “Then what the hell are you still here for?”

Before she could speak, there was a sudden pressure on her chest, bearing down like an iron weight, and it felt like her ribs were breaking. Gasping, she sought relief, but it wasn’t air she sucked into her lungs now but _water_ , wet and salty, and she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even cough it up — could only lay on her back, wide-sprung eyes staring up at the peach-coloured sky, which looked back at her, indifferent.

“Makino,” said the man, sounding serious now, the laughter gone from his voice, even as the warmth remained. “You have to push back. I can’t do it for you.”

The words were slow in reaching her, and it took _effort_ , took strength she didn’t feel she had to give, to push at anything. She couldn’t even move her limbs; they felt too heavy, her body like it was made of stone, sinking in the shallow water.

But then she couldn’t feel the water anymore, and the sand felt too hard to be that — felt like boards under her back. A floor — a ship’s deck? Her cheek felt like it was on fire, and her right arm responded in turn, heat pulsing under her skin. Her whole ribcage hurt, like a weight was pushing on it repeatedly, jarring her.

“There you go,” sighed the words into the quiet; dripped, warm like the sunlight into the sea. His laughter was back, sounding pleased. Then, “Hey,” came his voice again, a little softer this time. Makino couldn’t make out his face anymore, just the endless sky, and the perpetual sunset. “Say hello to Ray for me, would you?”

She couldn’t answer. She didn’t know if he even expected one, but if he did, she was too distracted by the sudden pain, coming from everywhere, pushing her down, trapping her limbs, her breath. She thought, deliriously, that she heard someone calling her name in the distance.

But she remembered what he’d said — _push back._ And the woman, the not-stranger with that gruff, uncompromising affection that she both remembered and didn’t, and _you gonna take dying lying down?_

 _No_ , Makino thought again, gripping the word like a lifeline. Not her. Not like this.

Not ever.

And so she _pushed_.

 

—

 

There was water in her lungs as she surfaced, gasping into consciousness; Makino pushed it out, burning past her throat like a strong liquor as she rolled over onto her side, coughing and spitting seawater, her throat closing up even as bile rose in its wake, until she was sobbing from the brutal onslaught.

She didn’t know where she was, and couldn’t think past the violent retching, the caustic blend of saltwater and vomit clouding all her senses, clogging her nose and her chest, even as the pain fought its way to the forefront of her awareness, her whole chest afire, like someone had shattered all her ribs. She tasted blood, then vomited it onto the planks, and — wait, _planks?_

There were voices around her, shouting — so many she couldn’t separate them and all of them loud, but she couldn’t make out what they were saying, the roar of what sounded like a whole crowd drowning out everything, filling her ears and her head until she thought it was about to split in half.

Scrambling for purchase, for sense and direction, she tried to push herself up, but there were hands on her shoulders then, steadying her — hands she _knew_ , Makino realised suddenly. Thick veins and scars mapping their backs, and strong forearms wrapped with tattoos, some fading, some ruined by old injuries (and she knew them all, and all the stories to them; a swallow for their first return from the Grand Line, a flower for an old lover, the little fish on his wrist for her son), and suddenly arrested by the sight, all she could do was stare at them blankly, before the upwards drag of her gaze was caught and seized by the face looking back at her.

 _Doc,_ she thought, numb — and Doc was _crying,_ and it was a struggle to decide which of those facts to focus on as she stared at him, uncomprehending.

“Damn you,” Doc told her roughly, laughing around a sob. There were tear-tracks on his cheeks, his eyes rimmed with red, and he sounded winded, like he’d run a mile at a dead sprint. Makino saw him pinch the bridge of his nose, fresh tears spilling over as he laughed, “ _Damn you_ , mad girl.”

She tried to speak but found herself short of a voice, her throat raw and throbbing and the taste of vomit still sharp on her tongue, and instead of words all she could manage were wet, racking coughs that felt like they were turning her insides out, and she bent forward from the pressure, her brow nearly pressed to the deck as she allowed them to run their course, her eyes blurring with tears.

A hand touched against her back, fingers trembling over the sharp curve of her spine, barely putting any pressure on it, as though afraid it would snap, but she knew who it belonged to without looking. Her senses coming back to her along with her breath, she could feel them all, their names stumbling over each other in her mind as she raised her eyes to take them in, one by one, finally realising where she was — on which deck, and under whose sails — and the _sob_ that left her held so much naked relief in it, Makino thought she’d never heard such a pathetic sound, but it only made the hopeful grins around her stretch wider.

Her eyes stung from tears and saltwater, and gods, everything _hurt_ , like it hurt just to live, her chest constricting painfully and every breath like a knife in her lungs. It felt like she was hanging on by a thread, but when she dropped her gaze to the figure sitting on her right, broad shoulders bent heavily, as though he’d spent all his strength and didn’t have enough left to stand, the hurt whispered away, and she quite forgot the pain.

“Ben Beckman,” Makino croaked, with something that might once have been recognisable as a disbelieving laugh. “Are you _crying_?”

Something chased across his face; Makino didn’t know if she wanted to call it a smile or something else, but it was the most expressive thing she’d seen in all the years they’d known each other, some wild, _affected_ thing, and she was so taken aback by the sight of it that when he reached forward to pull her to him she couldn’t even react.

He folded her up, the embrace too rough to be careful, but it wasn’t pain she felt as his arms came around her but something she barely recognised, having been without it for so long.

“Forgive me,” Ben said then, and something in her broke.

Then she was the one crying in truth, and her tears weren’t silent but loud, her sobs keening, hurt and relieved and angry and still-grieving, and he smelled of gunpowder and tobacco and it was the closest to home she’d felt in so long, it struck her so hard it left her gasping for breath, but when she sank into his arms all Ben did was tighten his grip.

Nose buried in his chest, Makino felt as it ripped through her, her happiness a harsh, unflattering thing, but she didn’t care, couldn’t give a fine damn as she fisted her hands in his shirt, damp between her fingers. And she was _angry_ , she realised, and might have hit him if she’d had the strength — might have struck him for the deal he’d agreed to, as though her life was worth more than his; more than all of theirs.

She wasn’t the only one sobbing, but the thought came to her slowly, sluggish through her throbbing head, her thoughts dull knives catching on fumbling fingers, but — _home_ , Makino thought, starved. She grasped it with everything she had left of herself, made herself remember what the word meant, even now. _Especially_ now.

Ben loosened his grip then, drew back so he could look at her, large hands curved around her shoulders, and being touched hurt, but she didn’t tell him, although the look on his face told Makino her own had let slip more than enough.

She sniffed. The tears were still running down her cheeks, blurring her vision and clinging to her lashes. “How dare you,” she said, pushing at his chest, a pathetic rebuttal. Her voice was little more than a rasp, her fury faltering on her tongue. It had never been comfortable there, but, “How dare you agree to that deal?” she repeated, sobbing.

The smile it prompted couldn't be confused with anything else this time, looking so _startled,_ Makino wondered if it caught Ben more off guard than it did her, and when he bent his head with a laugh, it was a wet, helpless sound.

She might have said more — might have given him a piece of her mind, of just what she thought about his self-sacrificial bullshit, still so angry she thought she might faint from it, but she wasn’t given the chance to say anything at all as there were suddenly new arms around her, long and wiry this time. Someone else was sobbing, the sound louder than the choked laughter around her, and she was so surprised by the sudden embrace, all she could do was close her arms around them in return.

But then, her fingers catching on the coarse brim of a familiar hat, and seeing the dark head of hair buried in her throat, recognition found Makino with a breath. “ _Luffy_?”

That only made him cry harder, and still trying to reclaim the scattered pieces of herself, all Makino could do was hug him back, first numbly, then a little tighter, realising suddenly that she hadn’t seen him in three years.

When he pulled back to look at her, his face was contorted, the scar under his eye standing out and big, fat tears lining his lashes. He looked older than he had when she’d seen him last, some of the soft pudge gone from his cheeks, leaving his features more pronounced, although with snot running unhindered from his nose he looked like the little boy who’d used to clutch her skirt and cry that he _wasn’t scared of his grandpa, he wasn’t scared of anything in the world!_

Sobs still bubbling up, Luffy stifled them by stubbornly setting his jaw. He looked like he was trying to gather himself, his body tense under her hands, the whole of him like a raw nerve as he looked at her.

Then his gaze locked on her right cheek, and it took effort not to drop her eyes at the sudden, shameless scrutiny that wiped all trace of expression clean off his face.

Frowning, his hand reached up. Makino saw how it shook, and his voice when he spoke sounded small, confused. “What—”

He didn’t touch her cheek, his fingers hovering an inch from the cuts. Incomprehension clouded his eyes, still filled with tears, but Makino saw as recognition replaced it, his brows drawing together sharply, before his gaze shot to hers.

He looked like he was about to say something — or shout it, as was far more likely, but Makino pressed her hands to his cheeks, stopping him. “Hey,” she said. Her voice still sounded hoarse, and it hurt to speak. “Look at you.” Her smile trembled on her mouth. “Are you king of the world yet?”

His shoulders hunched forward at that, and the sound that left him broke her heart. And he didn’t answer, but Makino only gathered him up in her arms, and drew some strength from the warmth he exuded. She was freezing, her clothes clinging and her teeth rattling even as she clenched her jaw, and when he hugged her back she ignored the discomfort; the persistent throbbing in her ribs, in her cheek and her arm.

“Thank you, Luffy,” she murmured, shaking fingers pressed to his spine. She didn't know how he'd come to be there, but she knew _why_ ; felt it, in the unyielding grip of his arms around her. “For coming for me.”

He tightened his hold on her, a grip so fierce it made fresh tears spill over her cheeks, but she only grinned and bore it; had never been happier to bear anything in her life.

When Luffy drew back again, wiping his tears, Makino felt the others closing in on her — her name murmured, sobbed, and shaking hands touching her shoulders, the top her head, like they were checking to see if she was tangible. Rough fingers snagged in her hair, trembled over her brow, her back, and she would have reached for all of them if she could have mustered the strength.

Ben hadn’t risen to his feet, and sat beside her heavily. He hadn’t taken his eyes off her once. Collapsed with his back to the bow-rail, Doc had fished out a flask, and when she glanced at him, lifted it in a tired salute, before tossing back a generous mouthful. Makino had half a mind to ask him to hand it over.

And watching them all, this crew that was hers, the tired and drawn faces looking back at her, like men who’d been out at sea for too long, and had forgotten what home felt like, she couldn’t find the words to say to them. But she sought their gazes, the trembling, hesitant smiles that looked like they didn’t quite remember how to sit on their mouths. She found Lucky, for once not eating, and Yasopp, looking like he’d aged several years since she’d seen him last. Rockstar, weeping into his elbow.

“You’re one hell of a woman, Makino,” Yasopp said then, a tired grin slanting along his mouth. His gaze lingered a moment on her right cheek, before he dragged it away, and she watched as his smile faltered a bit before he brought it back, although when he spoke next there was a telling roughness in his voice, “I don’t know anyone else stubborn enough to physically drag herself back from a drowning. Even Cap would have a hard time living up to that.”

The mention found her a second before it found Yasopp, and when realisation struck this time it was without kindness. “Shanks—”

She looked to Ben, knowing that if anyone had answers for her it would be him, although she regretted it a second later, finding his expression grim.

Then she was scrambling for the vivre card in her boot. Red from the cold, her fingers felt stiff and awkward, but she ignored the pain, although even as she pulled frantically at the laces, she couldn’t find it, and there was a second where she thought the worst — that the sea hadn’t claimed it, but that it had all burned away, that Shanks was—

“He’s still alive,” Ben told her, and when she looked up it was to find him holding another towards her, bigger than hers had been, the edges smooth, not ripped. It was burning, well over half of it gone, but there was still some left.

She couldn’t shape her relief into words, and couldn’t make herself take it, her hands shaking so badly she couldn’t even keep them still in her lap. But just when she was about to ask what had happened, a sudden disturbance beat her to the punch; a familiar, nasal warble, the sound muffled but instantly recognisable where it leaped into the din.

Frowning, Ben withdrew a baby Den Den Mushi from his pocket, brows furrowed above his eyes as he watched it, trilling away, before he lifted them back to hers. “This is my private line,” he said, an open suggestion in the words that Makino didn’t need to hear made explicit. Only one person would use that line.

 _Hope_ seized her, left her gasping for renewed breath, and she heard the murmur where it rose around her, as the others reached the same conclusion. Her smile felt like she'd forgotten how to do it, but she didn't care, and she didn’t make an attempt at holding back the tears this time, as Ben answered the call. “Boss?”

A beat passed, what seemed like the longest in her life, and she’d never craved the sound of his voice more, not even those failed attempts at reaching him while she’d crossed the Grand Line, and it hurt just imagining it but she welcomed the pain and shoved her sob back down her throat. She was feeling so much she could barely take it all, but she would let herself feel this, Makino thought. Finally, she would let herself feel everything.

But then — _“Took your time picking up,”_ Blackbeard’s voice came over the line, and her heart stopped.

No one spoke. The snail sat in Ben’s hand, a wicked, _familiar_ grin stretching along its wide-toothed mouth.

“No,” Makino breathed, the word small where it rushed out of her, but the sound of it lingered like a shout in the sudden quiet.

Delighted laughter drifted over the line, chasing his earlier greeting. _“Oho? You’re not dead then, nee-chan? Gotta say, you keep surprising.”_

It felt like drowning again. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, the world closing in around her, freezing the air in her lungs; suffocating her where she sat, staring at the snail.

She was shaking her head, although she didn’t know what she was refuting. She didn’t know what to think, confusion twisting like thorns around her insides as she scrambled for some kind of explanation, all that raw hope leaving her, like someone had ripped it from her chest.

His vivre card hadn’t burned up. He couldn’t be—

 _“Hellooo? You still there?”_ Blackbeard asked. _“This isn’t where you ignore me, is it? I’m hurt, nee-chan. And here I was calling with good news!”_ Then to someone on his end, _“Some gratitude, eh, Shanks?”_

There was a long pause; Makino felt it physically. The whole deck seemed to hold its breath, but she didn’t dare hope now, pulling away from it when it tried to reach for her.

Then — _“My girl,”_ came Shanks’ voice, and Makino clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the sound that left her.

She heard his sigh as it shuddered out, the relief in the sound palpable. The Den Den Mushi's eyes curved at the corners, nothing wicked left in its expression.  _“You’re okay?”_ Shanksasked. There was a notable strain in his voice, sounding like it took effort to speak, like he was injured but trying to hide it.

She couldn’t manage a response, nothing but a sob that dragged, unwilling from her chest.

She heard his laughter then, too soft, too tender for how it tore through her, and when he spoke next he'd lowered his voice to a murmur, a half-sigh wrapped around the words, seeming meant only for her, _“I’m glad.”_

She still couldn’t speak. All she could do was shake her head, unwilling to accept what was happening, even as she fought to understand. He was alive — he was _alive_ , so then why was he—

 _“Seeing as no one’s answering on my end, I’m guessing you’ve taken out my ships,”_ Blackbeard said then, the light observation betrayed by the dark note shadowing his amusement.

Makino didn’t look behind her to check, finding it implied in the people gathered on deck; in the quiet that draped over the timbers with the moisture in the air, and the lingering smell of smoke that sat on the icy breeze, like someone had lit a bonfire.

 _“That’s some timely interference,”_ Blackbeard continued, that dark quality slithering along the words, before his voice dropped, his show of amusement shucked without further pretence,  _“Hawk-Eyes.”_

Makino glanced up, finding Mihawk standing towards the back of the crew, next to a man she didn’t recognise, his clothes sopping wet and his silver hair curling, the round glasses on his nose fogging from the cold.

Mihawk didn’t reply, only watched the snail, his expression blank but for the brows furrowed above his eyes.

Her gaze caught on something then, a familiar colour and bulk, and when she took in the person standing at Mihawk’s left Makino couldn’t even find it in herself to be surprised — to feel anything at all but that rapidly growing numbness.

Dadan held her gaze, something terrible in her expression, a muscle feathering in her jaw as she set it, but she said nothing, and Makino stared back at her blankly.

 _“Guess it’s safe to say things didn’t go as I’d planned,”_ Blackbeard continued, although she was barely listening.  _“I’ve lost three ships, and I’m one bargaining chip short of saving myself from having to gamble the rest.”_

A beat, and the snail’s grin widened, as Blackbeard added, _“Or at least so I thought.”_

Luffy looked ready to interject, patience thinned by the gleeful monologue, when a girl stepped out of the crowd to clamp a hand over his mouth, suffocating whatever he’d been about to say. At his indignant look, she shook her head fiercely, russet hair flying, darkened by the rain that was no longer falling. Makino stared at it, seeing nothing, feeling everything.

 _“Your captain’s at something of a disadvantage,”_ Blackbeard said then, bringing her crashing back to awareness.  _“Which is a nice way of saying he’s royally fucked.”_

Anger leapt within her at the casual remark, _“But,”_ Blackbeard continued before she could find her voice, dragging the word out, almost torturously. _“I am a shameless opportunist, I’m not afraid to say it. So I’m changing the terms of our agreement. A once in a lifetime deal, and you’ll want to take it, if you want your lifetime to extend beyond the next few hours.”_

Makino stared at the snail, not understanding.

“You’d let him go?” Ben asked, putting words to the thought she couldn’t even bring herself to hope. “For what price?”

Laughter again, mocking this time. Makino thought she’d never hated a sound more. _“You’ve got it wrong. I’m not letting_ him _go, not a chance. I said I’d kill him if he lost, and I will. But you guys…”_

She frowned, but before she could ask — _“I don’t want to waste more of my fleet taking you down,”_ Blackbeard said. The snail’s grin slipped, and his voice lost its gleeful lilt. _“That little ensemble you've made isn't half bad, b_ _ut if necessity calls for it, I’ll do it. The rest of my fleet isn’t far. They’ll finish you off, I’ll make sure of it. But if you leave well enough alone, I’ll let you go. We’ll part here, and if you’re smart and stay out of my way, we’ll never see each other again. It’s a damn generous deal, if you ask me. Think of it as a future king’s benevolence. This whole sea will be mine, but I’ll let you stay on it, if you submit. Gotta have subjects if you're gonna have a kingdom, right?”_

Before she could even think, Makino snarled, “ _No_ —”

 _“Makino,”_ Shanks cut in, and the protest stilled on her tongue. There was something in his voice she couldn’t place; something she didn’t even recognise. _“It’s already been decided,”_ he said, evenly. _“You’ll retreat. All of you.”_

She was gaping at the snail now. Around her, the deck had gone quiet, a shocked silence that tolled its echo in her head, in her whole body.

At last, she managed to find her voice. “We’re not retreating,” she said. She hated how her voice trembled, but it was with disbelief this time, not with tears. She couldn't understand what he was _saying_. “Shanks, you can’t—”

 _“The bulk of his force is greater than mine,”_ Shanks said. The Den Den Mushi was frowning now, its mouth downturned. Even as an imitation of his expression, it looked _wrong_.  _“I won’t risk your lives. Not when they don’t need to be lost.”_

Her rebuke didn’t have any force behind it. All she managed was a frail, incredulous quaver. “Shanks—”

 _“Makino,”_ he snapped, and she shrunk back like she’d been slapped. And his voice when it reached her next wasn't that calm, almost detached reasoning, but a harsh and broken thing. _“I’m not losing you again.”_

Eyes wide and staring at the snail, Makino couldn’t even manage a reply.

She wanted to scream — wanted to curse him, to hate him for deciding this for her, for deciding that he couldn’t bear losing her without taking into account that she would be losing _him_.

 _“If even one of you interferes,”_ Blackbeard was saying then, and she wanted to snap at him before he could say anything more — to tell him to stop talking, to shout that she never wanted to hear his voice so long as she lived; wanted to sob, for what he was saying,  _“the deal won’t hold. Just try me. I’ll kill the lot of you if it’s the last thing I do. I’ll use my whole damn fleet to do it, and it won’t be a mercy killing. I’ll even start with you, nee-chan. You’ll wish you’d died when I blew up your village.”_

A pause then, short but full of promise.  _“I can prolong death, you know,”_ Blackbeard told her, musingly.  _“This fruit I’ve got nurtures suffering. I’ll make it feel like a lifetime. Hell, I’ll even keep you alive, make sure it really is one.”_

The words were meant to inspire fear, Makino knew, but couldn’t make herself feel it. All she could feel was that creeping numbness, colder than the breeze, than even the freezing seawater drying on her skin.

It felt like a dream — a dark, violent nightmare without end, and every time she felt close to resurfacing, to wake from the terror, it dragged her back under.

 _“I’ll take your silence as agreement,”_ came Blackbeard’s voice then, sounding almost cheerful. _“And to show you that I’m not completely heartless, I’ll give you a moment to say goodbye. Nice, huh? I know, I even surprise myself sometimes.”_

His words struggled to reach her through the numbness, like she was caged in ice, frost in her lungs, in her veins, rime on her brittle bones, until she felt nothing, not even the cold. The sea had been kinder, she thought numbly.

 _“My girl,”_ Shanks said, and the numbness shot cracks, hot tears filling her eyes anew, to spill over her cheeks. And there were twelve years in those two words; a whole decade of promises, of leave-taking and waiting, vows spoken under the setting sun and the child that had come from their two halves. There was grief and longing and relief, and she _hated_ that he sounded relieved — hated it so much she couldn’t speak.

She was shaking her head furiously, her words choking on her breath when she tried to speak them; she was crying so hard she couldn’t see through the tears. And she’d thought she’d already felt heartbreak, but _this_ — who could bear this and keep living? She couldn’t, Makino thought, with sudden certainty. How could he think she would ever survive this? That she would want to?

“Don’t do this,” she pleaded, her voice so small she wondered if he even heard it. “ _Please._ ”

She heard his sigh, heard the acceptance in it, but whatever he meant to say, she didn’t want to hear it, because she knew what it would be, and she didn’t want a goodbye. Not like this. Not _ever._

“Come back,” she said, before Shanks could say anything, her voice too broken for the order to sound like anything but a plea. She couldn’t even sound angry; couldn’t make her accusation bite. Instead it broke; shattered along with her voice as she sobbed, “You said you’d come _back_.”

He always came back. He _always_ came back, and he’d _promised_ her—

_“I’m sorry.”_

She couldn’t breathe. Everything hurt and she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t remember how, or how to even want to.

 _“Hey,”_ Shanks said then, and Makino recoiled from the word, the softly uttered greeting, the one that was theirs, that invoked _returns,_ not goodbyes, and she wasn’t prepared for it — couldn’t stand hearing it here, after everything. _“I love you.”_

The scream wouldn’t budge from where it sat, trapped at the bottom of her throat, so much anger in it she’d never felt anything like it. And she’d never resented him for leaving her, had never held it against him for being away, for the short time they had together, but she _hated_ him now for saying goodbye like this, when she’d fought so hard, when she’d given everything and would give more still, only to find he wouldn’t let her.

She hated him. She loved him. _It broke her._

 _“Ben,”_ Shanks said then. _“Take everyone and go.”_ There was a pause, a silence that stretched, a sea pooling wide and vast between them, the distance greater than it had ever been in all their years, before Shanks said, with an air of sober finality, _“Those are your final orders.”_

 _“You heard the captain,”_ Blackbeard broke in, before any of them could even raise a voice in protest. _“And because I’m such a swell guy, I’ll even wait to kill him until you’ve left. Y’know, to show that I can uphold my end of a bargain, since that seems to be in doubt, although I feel I should point out that you’re the ones who broke the rule of no interference.”_ He let the words hang, heavy on the air, before adding evenly, _“But if I catch you doing it a second time, I won’t hesitate. It’ll be swift, but it sure as hell won’t be painless.”_

Then, the words directed at Makino, _“Know a good bargain when you see it, nee-chan_ — _your husband did. You want to find out if your kid’s still alive, here’s your chance. No need to make him a complete orphan. So don’t be stupid.”_

At the mention of Ace, she nearly ripped the Den Den Mushi from Ben’s hand, as though it would somehow make a difference, but the feeling that gripped her didn’t leave room for rational thought.

She’d never felt hate like this in her life, a feeling so utterly foreign, so violent and caustic and all-consuming, Makino thought it might swallow her whole if she let it. It trashed within her, heaved and twisted, sharp edges digging into every corner of her soul, as though to carve a place for itself. It was a feeling that hurt more than anything she’d ever felt; that felt like it took all her strength just to bear it.

 _“And hey, you’re pretty,”_ Blackbeard said, with that loud, awful laugh. _“I’m sure you’ll find someone else, even with the scars.”_

The line cut off, so abruptly it felt like it severed something else within her, and in the silence that followed Makino could do nothing but stare at the Den Den Mushi where it drooped in Ben’s hand, having closed its eyes, a curious finality to the gesture.

Cold to the marrow, she felt suddenly, acutely aware of herself — of her wet clothes clinging to her skin, of her still-damp hair curling at her jaw, the stitches in her cheek pulsing like a heartbeat, the cuts stinging from the saltwater and the sea that lingered, in her lungs and on her skin, as though still reluctant to let her go.

She heard the others talking — heard their objections where they rose around her, the outraged clamour of voices she’d only ever heard raised in laughter and song, swelling like a tidal wave. She heard Luffy’s voice rising above all of them, the indignation that coloured it, boyish-bright. It was like she was caught in a storm, a whirlpool of fury and disbelief, pulling the skies down, the sea, but within her, everything was quiet.

_You married a pirate, but what did you let that make you? Someone’s weak, submissive wife?_

She didn’t know where the thought came from, only that it found her, and found in it the memory of a wild, cackling laugh, one she hadn’t thought about in months but that seemed suddenly at her fingertips, like a half-remembered dream. And in the laugh she remembered a coarse voice, like brine and the sea on the rocks, that slow drawl thick with familiar derision, but fondness, too.

 _You married, pirate,_ the voice said, firmly.

_And you’re no weak, submissive wife._

Her breath left her in a shudder, slipping under the din, a decision made before she’d even drawn it back in, and when she raised her eyes she found Ben’s, no disbelief on his face but something Makino thought looked like resolve, as though he was waiting for her to act, his eyes urging her.

The words when she spoke them were calm. Even with her eyes full of tears and her heart splitting, a breaking that never ceased, it sat, steady in her chest, kindness wrapped in steel, and _love,_ that whole, bottomless sea (and she’d never loved more, or more fiercely than in that moment, not in her whole life). And her voice didn’t waver, was level with purpose, still as the surface of a windless ocean as she declared to the rising tide around her—

“I’m staging a mutiny.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Makino finally admits she's a pirate by overthrowing one of the highest ranking pirates in the New World. Go big or go home, right?
> 
> That's what you get, Shanks, for all those jokes about her poaching your crew. Just wait until this hits the papers.


	16. empress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry for the long delay on this chapter! I've been working through a writer's block for this fic since January, but it's finally coming loose, and I couldn't be happier, so have an extra big update!
> 
> I've also nudged the rating up a bit, because this fic has been toeing the line for some time now, and I'm just more comfortable with it this way (also the comfort portion doesn't exactly include them chastely holding hands, just...putting that out there).

“I hereby seize control of this ship, and declare myself Captain of the Red-Hair Pirates.”

The rising din went quiet, hushed like a squalling child, although she hadn’t even raised her voice.

Still seated on the deck, the planks drying under the cold, open sky, Makino held Ben’s gaze as the declaration sank into the quiet, before she let hers move, soft as water across the pirates gathered around her. The sudden hush that had descended across the crew stirred something within her, some wild, curiously reckless feeling that crept like an itch along her bones, but her resolve didn’t waver, and neither did her voice as she added, hoarsely, “Any objections?”

She saw their startled smiles — saw the _hope_ alighting in drawn and weathered faces that looked like they hadn’t known it in years, their eyes gleaming, like they did when they were celebrating. And _this_ was the crew she knew, the one she’d served, that she’d claimed as her own long before she’d uttered the words that had just come out of her mouth.

“None, Ma’am,” Ben said, the first to speak; to break the silence. Makino watched as he pushed to his feet, the heavy lethargy from earlier having bled from his shoulders, replaced with something that looked like renewed purpose. She was desperately glad to see it, as she still felt like she didn’t have the strength to lift herself up.

He held out his hand to her then, and there was a second where she just looked at it. He’d pocketed the Den Den Mushi, but the call still lingered in the air, and in her mind. Shanks’ voice, over and over. _Those are your final orders._

Her hands were shaking, her thoughts fleeting and restless, but when she curled her fingers around his, Ben gripped them hard enough to anchor her focus, as he helped her to her feet. Her legs felt unsteady, a fawn-like lack of grace that made her stumble, her whole body trembling, protesting the attempt. It felt like she was physically holding herself together, battling bone-tired exhaustion and fear and that still-disbelieving anger, but she shoved it all down—piled so much reckless, stubborn _will_ atop it she forgot her pains, and how terrified she was.

And she needed to forget, because if she focused on how much pain she was in, or the uneasy sway of the ship beneath her (as though she, too, sensed something amiss; that she knew something was _missing,_ her heart gone, the place usurped), she might just be sick all over the deck again, and if she allowed even one part of herself to crumble, Makino knew the rest of her would follow suit. If she broke now, she wouldn’t get back up, and she would never forgive herself for that—for succumbing to her fears, or to something as pathetic as a few scrapes and bruises. There was more at stake than her physical health.

“Orders, Bosslady?” Yasopp asked then, and Makino glanced up, startled, but the epithet sat with a curious surety on his tongue, emphasised by the grin it left in its wake, seeming shaped from pure defiance.

And still gripped by that strange calm, Makino accepted the designation as she accepted the truth of what she’d done.

“I’m overriding those of your former captain,” she said, and there was a hysterical laugh threatening at the back of her throat, speaking the words, the awareness of what she was saying sinking into her tired bones now. Shanks had joked about it for years, and she’d smiled, indulging him, but here she was, on his ship, commandeering it and his crew both.

She looked up at the sails, spread wide under the naked sky, the canvas rustling in the knife’s edge of the breeze that cut her skin. She felt how the vessel swayed on the water, the sea having quieted, although the waves were restless where they worried the hull, as though urging them to leave, despite her decision. Makino felt the warning; the sense that this battle was far from over, and that they’d yet to see the worst of it.

And she felt the ship—felt the pulse in the creaking timbers, and the growing surety in her steady mount on the water. Her ship now, although it had always been a little that, like this crew had been hers, and in more than just sentiment.

She dropped her gaze to the dragon figurehead arching beyond the bow, regally overlooking the water. She could sketch the shape in her sleep, the elegant curve of its neck, and the carvings. She’d searched the horizon for it so many mornings, waiting.

But she was done waiting. It waited for _her_ now—for orders, same as her crew.

“Those who’d rather retreat may do so,” she was saying then, the words coming to her from somewhere within, as though they’d always been there, lurking in the deep. Looking away from the figurehead, she watched them all, each face looking back at her. “I won’t hold it against you.”

No one moved. Their smiles remained, seeming even steadier on their mouths than before.

Then, a breath dragged deep, past all her fears and her anger and her hurts, she reached for that fiercely protected place within her, that she’d kept untouched for so long—the place where she’d kept all her hope, all her enduring faith; that remembered the promise he’d made her and that she’d believed for so long she couldn’t imagine doing differently, even now when he’d broken it for her sake.

 _Come back to me_ , and it was all she’d ever asked of him, but if he couldn’t come back to her now, Makino would take matters into her own hands.

“Get him back,” she said, and the grins widened, broke like a tidal wave across their faces, before their agreement rose to join it, a chorusing _roar_ that she felt in her whole body, like a surge from the bottom of her stomach, rising up her chest and nearly dragging a startled laugh with it. It overtook the whole deck, the deafening sound enough that she felt new tears pricking against her eyes, some stubborn feeling pushing them forth, looking at Shanks’ crew and thinking _how did you ever think you could order them to leave you?_

A presence made itself known behind her, took shape amidst the tumult, a silent question in the calm approach, and she turned to find Mihawk observing her, something like amusement winking in his eyes despite the severe weight of his expression. Around them, the rousing cheer was dying down, swirling eddies left of the surging whirlpool of approval. Makino let it wrap around her, took strength from it as she craned her neck to look at him.

“Are you ordering me?” he asked her, the level cadence of his voice letting nothing slip, but Makino wasn’t fooled.

“Not ordering,” she said. It hurt to speak, her voice raw from throwing up so much seawater. “Asking.”

His look didn’t soften, but there was a telling shift in his eyes, as he told her, “Asking is not necessary.”

Lips pressed together, Makino nodded, unable to form the words to tell him that she was grateful, although she doubted she had to. Less perceptive people could read her without trouble, and she was wearing all her feelings on her face, but for once, couldn’t bring herself to be bothered. She wasn’t going to pretend she wasn’t terrified, and since she could offer him nothing but gratitude, then at least let him see the full extent of it. He had no investment in interfering beyond his friendship with Shanks, and he might have vehemently denied the suggestion if she’d offered it, but his presence spoke for itself; Makino knew that as well as Mihawk.

“He’s dead,” Mihawk said then, making her look up, startled. “The jester.”

It took her a second to make the connection, before she did. _Lafitte._

“Oh,” she said, the sound small where it left her, and once she might have been shocked by the surge of _relief_ that filled her at the announcement of someone’s demise, but in the place where her regret might have been there was only the still-tender memory of terror and pain, and that horrible calm, so at odds with his sheer capacity for violence.

Her ribcage ached, as though in response to the thought, and she clenched the fingers of her left hand together. Her right still hurt too much, the pain in her arm leaving her fingers stiff and awkward. Makino tried not to think about it too much.

She saw Mihawk’s gaze where it flicked towards it, before lifting back to hers, and the barest furrow of his brows spoke louder than what his words implied, as he told her, wholly cool even as the declaration was anything but, “I am not only doing this for Red-Hair’s sake.”

She couldn’t even bring herself to nod this time, but the slight incline of his head spoke of understanding, and something else as he watched her. And she must look terrible, Makino thought, but it wasn’t agreement she found in his eyes now, but rather something that invoked that late afternoon in her bar, and the shadow of his amusement as he’d regarded her, having planted herself between him and her son without a thought. He’d worn a similar expression then, as though he’d found her exceeding his expectations—or perhaps just confirming them, although Makino doubted he’d vocally concede to that, if pressed.

But it gave her some measure of assurance, knowing that—believing that she wasn’t completely in over her head, that she could do this; that she could be the person she found reflected in their eyes as they all looked at her, expectant.

The words perched on her tongue, and she wanted desperately to ask about Ace. Now that she could breathe, she wanted to ask about her son, and how Mihawk had known he was safe. Selfishly, she wanted to ask where he was—wanted to know more than just the assurance that he was _somewhere_ , unharmed.

But that was a mother’s prerogative, and right now she was more than a mother. She was a pirate—a captain. Right now, her crew came first. Shanks came first. She would find their son later.

Her heart beat like a trapped bird against the cage of her ribs. She didn’t know what she was doing, just that she was doing it, but how were they going to save him?

Thoughts spinning, she considered the situation as it lay before her. She was an organised person, always had been; she knew how to make order out of chaos. Strategising wasn’t much different, even if there was an immeasurable difference between running a bar and commanding a crew of pirates.

But for all that she knew little of being a captain, she knew more about piracy than most who didn’t readily call it their profession. She’d married a pirate, but she hadn’t stayed ignorant of his enemies. She knew about Kaidou’s army, and about Big Mom’s children. She knew about Blackbeard’s fleet, an obscene mimicry of the pirate whose seat he’d usurped.

She knew the game pieces involved. And even if she didn’t know all the rules, that didn’t matter. She could make her own.

Blackbeard was three ships short of a fleet with eleven in total. She didn’t know how close the rest were, but if they were quick they might evade them altogether. All they needed was a chance to get to Shanks in time.

And if they did, they would deal with Blackbeard. They had two pirate crews, and Mihawk. Luffy had made a name for himself for a reason; the rest of his crewmates, too. And Blackbeard might be powerful, but a single pirate couldn’t withstand a force that strong, Makino was sure of that. If he’d thought he could, he would have asked them to come—would have taunted them into doing it, for no other reason than to demonstrate that he could defeat them all. But he hadn’t.

She could spot the island in the far distance, a pale strip climbing out of the dark water. She didn’t know if Blackbeard could see them, but it was likely the case. The rain had lifted, the cold mist evaporated, leaving them entirely too visible, even as Luffy’s ship idled in Red Force’s shadow, hidden from view.

“We need a diversion,” she said then, and the talking around her ceased, leaving room for her voice, hoarse as it was. They were all looking at her now, but Makino didn’t allow herself to falter. “Somehow—if we could somehow convince him we’ve left, we could buy ourselves an opening,” she said. They needed something that might distract him long enough for them to get to the island.

She thought of a book she’d read once. A great, daring rescue, and a crew of bandits in disguise, slipping a prisoner right out from under a cruel king’s nose. But how to disguise two whole ships?

“I could create a mirage,” a voice spoke up, and Makino blinked, before all eyes turned to the girl in Luffy’s crew; the one who’d kept him from speaking earlier.

 _Nami_ , Makino thought suddenly, remembering the wanted poster she’d kept, pinned to the wall in her bar along with the others.

The girl was looking at her now, addressing her like she really was the captain, as though she commanded that authority. It still took effort for Makino to wrap her head around that—to accept that it was the truth; that she’d made it so.

“We could trick him into thinking we’re retreating, and then take our submarine to the island,” Nami continued. She cut Luffy a sidelong look, her mouth lifting in a wry smile. “Subtle entrances isn’t usually how we roll, but it doesn’t have to be subtle, as long as we have the element of surprise. And Blackbeard doesn’t know we’re here.”

Luffy nodded once, firmly. “What she said.”

“She makes a good point,” Ben said. He was considering the island, before his gaze shifted to Nami, and then to Makino. “Blackbeard won’t see it coming.”

“Sounds like our best shot,” Yasopp agreed, to a rising murmur of approval.

“Okay,” Nami said; for a moment, Makino thought it sounded like she was counting under her breath. “If we do this, we need to establish a plan of action once you get there.”

“That’s easy,” Luffy said, arms crossed. “We kick Blackbeard’s ass.”

She pinched his ear. “A little more specific than that, _thank_ you. We’re trying to save Red-Hair. We don’t have a lot of time.”

“He won’t kill him right away,” Ben said, drawing all the eyes on deck towards him. At Makino’s frown, he raised his brows meaningfully. “Teach likes to talk.”

Something cinched tight within her. And she remembered well enough standing in his quarters, watching him pour the drinks as he gleefully relayed his plans.

There was a reason he hadn’t killed Shanks outright. To savour the victory, no doubt, but Blackbeard didn’t just savour having the upper hand, he _thrived_ off it. And that was their key to saving Shanks—the possibility that Blackbeard might prolong killing him, just for the sake of gloating.

“Then we use that to our advantage,” Makino said, and was glad it was anger she found now, and not fear. She’d had enough of fear.

She looked to Luffy then, and didn’t know what she was asking, but before she could even try—

“Don’t worry,” he said. He wasn’t smiling, but the effect was all the greater, simple as the declaration was. And it wasn’t an empty promise, offered just to make her feel better. There was an unwavering faith there that Makino recognised, and one that was so fiercely welcome, it nearly stole her breath.

She nodded, unable to do anything else, and when he flashed her a smile this time it took effort to hold back her sob, relieved that it was.

“I’ll provide the mirage,” Nami told her, and then to Luffy, “You take it from there, Captain.” Her gaze swept across the rest of her crew, standing amidst the Red-Hair Pirates. Makino saw Yasopp’s son, sitting by the railing and nursing a bandaged shoulder, and a young man in a suit coolly smoking a cigarette. “The shark takes three people. If Luffy is going, that leaves room for two more. Since I’m cloaking two whole ships, I’m staying here. We _could_ use the Mini Merry, but it would be visible...”

As they discussed splitting up, Makino turned to her own crew, seeming to be awaiting further orders, although it wasn’t so much an order as it was a question, when she raised her gaze to meet Ben’s.

“I’ll go,” he said, without hesitation.

Yasopp nodded. “I’ll stay.” He slipped her a wink as he said it, although Makino saw the way his skin was pulled tight around his eyes; saw the forced quality of his smile, but when he spoke there was an effortless honesty in the words as he told her, meaningfully, “I always guard the Captain’s back.”

She wanted to smile, but dredging up anything even resembling one seemed beyond her, when her thoughts couldn’t seem to detach themselves from the phone call, replaying in her head over and over. Shanks might have managed in her shoes—had managed, even relaying his last words to her; the words he’d decided would be the last, and he’d sounded _happy._

Her fingers twitched. And she was suddenly tempted to tell Ben to stay on the ship, that _she_ would go with Luffy and that it was within her rights as captain to make that decision, but even thinking it, even knowing that she could, Makino paused. Because she might be captain, but her powers didn’t extend beyond the authority she’d claimed. She still had nothing to offer in a fight against Blackbeard.

She almost regretted not having eaten that devil fruit when she’d had the chance, but suffocated the thought before she could even finish thinking it.

A glance at Ben made her wonder if he’d read her thoughts on her face—not specifically about the devil fruit, and Makino doubted she’d share that moment of weakness for as long as she lived, but the rest he’d caught, from the slight furrow of his brows.

But she was allowed her selfish thoughts, wasn’t she? To fancy herself stepping onto that island, powerless as she was, to help save the man she’d give anything to have back. He wouldn’t deny her those, not when he knew perfectly well she would never choose stupidity over reason, however greedy her heart.

“Will it be enough to defeat him?” Makino asked instead.

Ben didn’t nod to confirm it, but, “Teach is one man,” he reminded her. “He might be powerful, but he will have spent himself—he didn’t take the Captain down easily.” His features drew together, as he turned fully towards her. “But if we do this, he’ll make good on his promise. He’ll command his fleet to attack, and we need people here prepared to fight. If we’re taking him on, we’ll have to prepare to take on his whole force.”

His pause was deliberate; Makino felt it where it came to settle between them all, before Ben said, not mincing words, “We will either be enough, or we won’t be. The question that matters is if it’s worth taking the risk.”

There was no question, Makino knew. They’d already made their choice.

She nodded. It felt heavy, but there was a decisiveness in it that wasn’t mistaken. She wouldn’t let it be misunderstood. “Aye.”

She looked towards the Straw-Hats, having gathered on the other side of the deck. Luffy looked impatient to get going, and two of them were bickering; the young man in the suit and the swordsman, and it struck her then, and abruptly, how _young_ some of them were. And of course she knew—knew that Luffy wasn’t even twenty, that he was still in so many ways a boy—but somehow, watching them amidst her own crew, most of them twice their age and then some, it really drove the truth home.

“They’re strong,” Ben said then, having noticed where her gaze had gone. When she looked at him, it was to find him observing the Straw-Hats. “Some of them are young, but they’re not kids. This sea doesn’t allow you to be a kid for long. And they know what they’re getting into.”

He paused, and for a moment, seemed to draw into himself. “The balance of power in the New World has been stagnant for years. We allowed it to become that. No one interfered with each other’s business. That was how we ran things—relative peace achieved through isolationism.” He nodded to the Straw-Hats. “But they don’t care about that. Old systems mean precious little to the young. They mean to change it.”

He looked at her then, and there was an infinite weight of regret in his eyes as he told her, “It’s what we should have done, but we waited too long. If we hadn’t—”

“Ben,” Makino cut in gently, and shook her head. She didn’t want an apology from him for what Blackbeard had done. “I knew the risk when I married him,” she said, and then, firmer, “And I’d do it again, even knowing—even knowing what would happen. I chose him. I _chose_ this life.” She drew a breath, and with a trembling smile, “I’m a pirate, aren’t I?”

The corner of his mouth lifted, along with some of the weight across his brow. “You’re more than that.”

She tried not to grimace at the words. Even accepting what she’d done, that didn’t mean she felt any more like a captain. She certainly didn’t look it.

As though on cue, she saw his gaze drop to the bandage around her arm, and she tried not to think about how she appeared. Her clothes were still wet, clinging to every exposed bit of skin, and it couldn’t be good to leave her wounds untended, her bandages soaked and sagging with seawater, but it seemed like such a minor concern, with what lay ahead of them.

Ben raised his eyes to something over her shoulder then, and Makino felt the presence before he excused himself—felt the sheer, unapologetic bulk of it, the feeling invoking the smell of woodsmoke, and brandy on her tongue.

Then Dadan was before her, and for the briefest of moments, Makino forgot about her meagre worries, attention seized by the sight, and the realisation that she was _there._

She shook her head, although didn’t know at what, but, “I don’t know if I want to ask,” she said, the words wrapped around a broken laugh-sob.

Dadan’s look softened a bit, although it was a brutal kind of softness. “I’m sorry,” she said roughly.

Still shaking her head, Makino wiped at her eyes. She’d started crying, and couldn’t seem to stop the tears. “What are you apologising for?”

Dadan’s silence persisted, and Makino watched as her gaze swept across her, deepening the furrow between her brows, before her eyes came to settle on her cheek. She tried to ignore the curl of shame that tightened to a knot in the bottom of her stomach.

“For not getting here sooner,” Dadan said at length. And she didn’t say anything else, but then she didn’t need to. Makino heard it, loud and clear.

She had a thought then, if it would always be like this—people toeing around the scars, and their significance. Any other wound would be healed and forgotten in a few weeks, but she wondered now if that would ever be possible—if hers would ever fully heal; if they would let them.

She was surprised at how _angry_ that left her, and felt suddenly like lifting her chin in defiance, to make the cuts more visible—to make them _see_ , and accept, like she would have to. They would scar, she knew that, but she refused to live with the scars of their guilt on top of it. They would all just have to deal.

Some of her thoughts must have transferred to her face, because Dadan’s look changed then—it didn’t soften this time, but there was a shift, along with a flicker of chagrin, before she dragged her eyes from the scars. But Makino saw the understanding in them, and exchanged it with silent forgiveness.

“Your boy,” Dadan said then, and Makino’s heart leaped, so startled it wiped the determined press of her expression clean off.

She couldn’t even shape his name to speak it, let alone accept what Dadan’s words suggested, because it wasn’t a question she’d uttered but a statement, as though she _knew_ —like Mihawk had known, but for the life of her, Makino couldn’t fit the two pieces together. It seemed too impossible to conceive, how the three of them connected, and yet there were stranger things to accept, like the quiet murmurs of _captain_ as her crew passed her by, not said in jest but with unshakable earnestness.

And if she could believe that, then she could believe whatever story sat behind Dadan’s eyes, and so instead of questioning it, “Where is he?” Makino asked, the question she hadn’t allowed herself to ask Mihawk.

Dadan’s mouth quirked, although it wasn’t quite a smile. “That clown friend of yours,” she said, with a raised brow, and it took Makino a second to understand who she meant.

Then, her eyes widening, “ _Buggy_?” Makino blurted.

Dadan’s snort wasn’t convincingly condemning. “Yeah. And a whole circus of a crew that seemed pretty fond of you,” she said, before conceding with a fond grunt, “But then you have that way about you.”

Makino stared at her, mouth working, but didn’t know what she wanted to ask—found it difficult just believing what Dadan was saying.

He’d gone back for her son?

“Where are they now?” she asked then. _Far away_ , she hoped, remembering how the sea had split, the deck slipping out from under her feet and the water dragging her under. She hoped her son hadn’t felt any of it; that wherever he was, he really was safe.

But even as she thought it, she couldn’t help but hope they weren’t far—that it wouldn’t take long to find them. She missed her son so much she felt sick from it.

Dadan looked towards the horizon, mother-of-pearl where the sky stretched, thin and gauzy above the waterline. “We left them a little ways back. Figured we were headed straight into a shitstorm.” She snorted. “We were right.”

Makino frowned. “We?”

Dadan's gaze shifted to something across the deck—towards Mihawk, and the man Makino didn’t recognise, the one with the round glasses. “Yeah,” she said. Then with a sigh, “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you over a glass, once this is over.” She looked Makino up and down, but where her expression had been wrought with regret before, there was a gleam of something else in her eyes now, something almost like approval, as she said, “You’ve got your own to tell, from the looks of things.”

Makino looked down at herself—at the torn clothes and bandages. The thin silk of her camisole didn’t offer much protection against the breeze, her bare arms gathering goosebumps, but in looking at herself, the sight didn’t feel as alien as it had, in the brig of Blackbeard’s ship.

It still didn’t look like her, but it didn’t look like someone else, either, although perhaps what she needed to do wasn’t to look for the things she remembered. Perhaps she just needed to reevaluate who she was now—who she had become, for better or worse.

And she had to believe that he would recognise her, either way—that he would still find in her the girl that he’d loved, the one that was his; the one he’d named as such before he’d even fully known her, and had never stopped. Once this was over—and she needed to believe it would be, that they would succeed—she had to believe they would still find their way back, like they always had.

She didn’t feel like a captain, or even fully like herself, but it didn’t matter who she was or what, as long as it was enough—to see this through, to save Shanks. Because she could take losing pieces of herself, but _him_ —

Makino didn’t know how she’d survive losing him.

 

—

 

The Straw-Hats were preparing their submarine, the navigator taking charge with a no-nonsense efficiency that Ben recognised keenly, if not a little wryly, and in the tumult of hurried preparation he sought Makino out.

She stood amidst the crew on the foredeck, her gaze trained on the island beyond the bow, but she turned to face him as he approached, like she’d sensed him coming. Not that surprising, given her affinity for observation, but it seemed a sharper thing now than it had been—more attuned, a new awareness seeming to have whet the latent skill to a blade’s edge.

She’d never had training, Ben knew. Shanks had been aware of it, had musingly speculated the merit of training her in it, but there hadn’t been any need for her to know how to use haki in the life she’d lived, on her quiet sea.

But this sea had forced her to learn, Ben saw, gaze fleeting over the cuts in her cheek, and the bandages wrapped around her right arm. They were coming loose, stained brown with dried blood and the fresh, pinker tinge that spoke of reopened stitches. He made a mental note to ask Doc to check on her before they left. From the look of her, she didn’t have much mind to spare herself, worry creasing her brow and her eyes far away, the skin beneath them dark and bruised.

He watched as they shifted to what he was carrying, recognition alighting in them, before hurt contorted her expression, and so vividly there was a split second where he wondered if his small attempt at comfort had had just the opposite effect.

Ben held out the cloak, and saw as she hesitated, her fingers curling at her sides. The acute hurt in her eyes had softened, but they were still bright and pained, fixed as they were on the offering.

“You looked cold,” he told her simply.

Makino said nothing, and for a moment all she did was look at it, before lifting a trembling hand towards it, to curl her fingers into the dark fabric.

He’d fetched it from the captain’s quarters—had made sure to root out one that had been recently used, and if the situation had been different he might have lamented Shanks’ habit of leaving them all over the ship, but the remark stuck to the roof of his mouth, and he found that his silence was probably kinder, as he watched her bury her nose in the fabric.

Her tears spilled over, but she didn’t make a sound, the tense grip of her shoulders rigid, before they convulsed in a single, silent sob. He wondered how much strength it was taking her to keep standing, but she did.

He watched as she unfolded the cloak, considering the weight of it where it spilled from her fingers, before reaching to wrap it around herself, her hands shaking but her movements deliberate. It was too big, the dark fabric dwarfing her tiny frame, and the sight invoked a different time—a girl in her nightdress with her feet bare, who’d made a choice.

Now the girl was older, but the same decision sat in the stubborn press of her features as she adjusted the cloak and lifted her chin, although even with her obstinate composure, Ben saw the fear that sat, bright with the tears in her eyes. She really did have the most expressive face he’d ever seen.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said, and watched as her gaze raised to his. “You might not have experience commanding a crew, but there’s more than experience to being a captain. And you’re more of a leader than you think.”

At her doubtful grimace, he allowed a smile to lift his mouth. It didn’t feel as forced as he’d thought it would; as though he was slowly re-learning how to do it. “You’re patient, and level headed. And you’re more cunning than you give yourself credit.”

For some reason, the last remark made something chase across her face—regret, like it hurt her to hear it, although he’d meant for it to be encouraging. And so before she could get comfortable with the feeling, “We’re not following you because we have no other choice,” Ben told her firmly. “We’re doing it because we know you, and we trust you.”

He allowed the words to sink in, and then, “Every crew needs an anchor,” he said, hoping she would understand _that,_ if nothing else. “And you’ve always been ours.”

Her tears were falling freely now, but she wasn’t reaching up to wipe them away, allowing them instead to run unhindered down her cheeks. And Ben watched as her expression firmed, the set of her jaw as she righted her shoulders under the weight of Shanks’ cloak.

“I’ll manage things here,” she said. Her voice sounded hoarse, but then she’d just been brutally resuscitated. “You just make sure he comes back alive.”

Ben inclined his head. “Aye, Ma’am.”

“Ben,” Makino said, before he could walk away. There was something fierce in her eyes now. The severe downturn of her mouth didn’t suit her face, and seemed only to emphasise the cuts in her cheek. Her hair was drying, the short strands haloing her face and framing her eyes, making them seem larger; dark as the bottom of the sea, and just as merciless. “That goes for you, too.”

And she was looking at him like she knew the decision he’d made—that he’d long since counted his life forfeit, and it wasn’t acceptance he found on her face, but fearless opposition.

She looked like a captain then, Ben thought—a pirate, and something strangely fey, like the sea they’d pulled her out of had left a piece of itself with her, on her skin and in her eyes. Or maybe it had always been there, just under the surface.

And it was an order that left no room for disagreement, and so, “Captain,” he said simply, as he made to cross the deck to where the Straw-Hats were waiting with Hawk-Eyes.

“We’re all set,” Nami told him, having caught his approach. “Once you’re in the water, I’ll do my part.” She tapped her fingers to the staff in her hands.

“How long will it hold?” Ben asked, eyeing the staff. It wasn’t asked out of doubt—he’d watched her drain the whole sky of water; the declaration that she could create mirages seemed a curiously mundane skill in comparison. But he liked having all the facts.

“Long enough for you to get to the island,” she said, with a surety that didn’t budge from her smile. “Our submarine is fast. It shouldn’t take you long.”

Ben nodded. It hadn’t been long since Blackbeard’s call, although every minute felt like a minute too long. But the vivre card in his pocket still burned. _That_ was assurance enough.

He touched his fingers to the card, considering. Having it on him wasn’t useful beyond the information it offered, but that would cease to matter once they got to the island. There was someone else who might need the assurance more.

He looked back at Makino, standing by the bow. He hesitated, feeling how the paper burned; how little was left.

And he wasn’t cynical by nature, but he _was_ a pragmatist. Having faith they would succeed was one thing, but that didn’t change the fact that the odds were stacked against them. And if they didn’t make it in time—if after everything, they were still too late to save him and she’d have to witness their failure that way…

He tucked Shanks' still-burning vivre card back in his pocket, and turned to Luffy and Hawk-Eyes.

“Let’s go.”

 

—

 

“Looks like they’re retreating. Smart move.”

Shanks didn’t raise his eyes to acknowledge the remark, or to watch Red Force depart. As it was, it took effort just lifting his head, and every little movement seemed to cinch the bindings tighter—the solidified darkness holding him in place, on his knees with his arm restrained, his head bowed.

It was a crude parody of an execution, although there was no crowd to witness it, and none of the navy’s pomp and ceremony. No doubt Blackbeard would have preferred there was, but a lack of an audience hadn’t deterred him from making a speech.

“Then again,” Teach continued, tone musing, “that first mate of yours isn’t known for being stupid. I’m a little disappointed he didn’t take me up on the offer to join my crew. I could use someone like him.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Shanks saw him pause, the once-polished leather of his boots stained with dirt and blood, before he resumed his walk, mapping a lazy circle around where he was seated, his knees in the dirt.

He was tired, his haki spent, no strength left to fight back, even against the bonds. The wound across his chest had opened up again; he felt the blood seeping into his pants, his shirt long since ruined. He wondered idly how long before the blood loss had him passing out—if Blackbeard would finish him before it happened. He seemed curiously intent on staying true to his word of not killing him before they were gone. Shanks had to wonder at the show of restraint, dragging out the inevitable.

Or maybe he was simply enjoying having the upper hand too much to cut it short prematurely.

Moving his head hurt, but he didn’t look at Blackbeard, gaze seeking instead the dull gleam of metal amidst the dirt where Gryphon lay, some ways off. The sight of the broken blade had something constricting within him, even as he realised how pathetic that pain was. What did a sword matter, when his own life was forfeit? But he felt the loss all the same, as he felt all the others—his crew, and Makino. Ace.

It was hard to believe it was ending this way. Somehow, he’d imagined it would end differently, or that he’d at least be spared the wait.

He didn’t know if he wanted to laugh at the selfish wish—the mere idea that he would have some kind of power over his own demise, as though anyone did. Maybe that kind of thinking belonged to a different era, to the captain who’d brought about the impossible; who’d never faltered in the course of his life, even when he’d reached the end of it.

Shanks didn’t want to falter now. He wanted the relief that he’d felt, with the assurance that Makino had survived—the knowledge that she wasn’t dead, that she’d outlive him. He _hated_ himself for the regret he felt instead; the ugly, selfish feeling, realising that he still wouldn’t get to see his son grow up, or kiss his wife out of sleep.

As though he’d picked up on his line of thought—or perhaps he was simply searching for something that would prompt a reaction, having so far been unsuccessful — “That goodbye was nice, though,” Blackbeard said then. Shanks could practically hear the grin. “Really heartfelt. Hell, even I was a little moved by that ‘I love you’. Almost got a tear in my eye, although I’m gonna be straight with you—I expected more from her. She didn’t even say it back!” He snorted. “Some devoted wife you’ve got.”

Shanks didn’t dignify the remark with an answer, but felt the bile where it burned in his throat, remembering the call—her voice as it had broken, and her silence the loudest of all.

“See now, this is why I never married,” Blackbeard said. “It’s an overly glorified tradition if you ask me. Eternal devotion? Unconditional affection? Hah! No one’s ever loyal without incentive—there’s always _conditions_. That’s the only way to ensure loyalty in this world; you need to give ‘em incentive. Conditional love, now _that’s_ my kind of romance! You give someone what they want, and you know you’ve got them. It’s people who believe otherwise who end up being fucked over. You have to make sure you’re the one offering the best price. That way, they’ll have no reason to look elsewhere. Captaincy isn’t that different from marriage, now that I think about it.”

He paused. Shanks refused to lift his head, even as Blackbeard asked, the words curling around his ear, his voice nearly purring with mockery, “What did you give her, huh? The honour of being a pirate’s wife, to wait out her life in some backwater port while you’re off enjoying yourself on the high seas? A brat to raise alone, and whatever time you’ve got to spare between trysts. And don’t even try to tell me you’ve been faithful to one woman all this time—I heard the rumours about you when we were younger. Pretty as nee-chan was, I won’t buy that she was the only one. She probably knew it, too.”

Shanks set his jaw, but didn’t bother correcting the accusation. Blackbeard could believe whatever he wished; Makino knew the truth. He’d never doubted that—had never given her a reason to think otherwise, but even as he rooted his heart in the thought, he couldn’t stop the words from creeping in past his defences.

What had he given her, other than a lonely marriage, and more pain than anyone deserved, least of all her?

“She’s probably relieved to have slipped that noose,” Blackbeard continued. He'd nearly circled all the way around, his leisurely pace suggesting he had all the time in the world. “Maybe it’s a good thing you won’t live to see it. After all, there’s no guarantee she would have stuck around if you’d survived. How do you think that would have gone? Settling down like nothing had happened, after everything she’s been through? Odds are, she would have packed her bags and taken your kid, and good fucking riddance. You’ll see—or, heh, you won’t, because you’ll be dead, but you know what I mean. The moment you’re gone, she’ll find someone else. Someone in your crew, maybe. Or maybe it’ll be someone completely different, some boring-ass farmer or whatever. I can imagine she’s pretty fed up with being a pirate’s wife. Just look at what marrying _you_ brought her.”

Shanks tried to keep from wincing, gaze fixed on a point by his knees, but he hadn’t been quick enough to mask his reaction this time, he knew, from the way Blackbeard _laughed_ , sounding delighted.

“Hey. Enlighten me on something,” Blackbeard said then. “Your family, little wife and all. What was your endgame? Retiring in that yawn of a village, raising a bunch of kids, pretending you’re not what you are?” He snorted, the sound short and incredulous. “What were you going to do, run a bar? Matching aprons, the whole deal? Don’t kid yourself, Red-Hair. You’re a goddamn _pirate_. That kind of life isn’t for us.”

He refused to let himself be goaded, but it was hard, when all the jibe did was make him think that _yes_ , that was exactly what he’d counted on—the life he’d wanted with her; the peace he’d hoped he’d earned, and children (four—she’d wanted _four_ , the thought found him now, as though in immediate, defiant response). He’d wanted all of that, more than he’d ever wanted anything else.

“Still nothing?” Blackbeard asked then. “Shit, that’s some restraint. And here I was really trying! Ah, well. I’ve got other means to get you to talk.”

The words were barely out of his mouth before Shanks felt something sharp slipping between his ribs, followed by the sensation of something being physically drained from him, like part of his soul was being consumed. He tried to set his jaw against the pain, but it didn’t help, the white-hot agony overtaking all his senses, driving his breath from his lungs, along with a shout that felt like it was ripped from him.

The sudden release left him choking—he felt the blood running down his chin and the seat of his pants, and he would have slumped forward if it hadn’t been for the shackles forcibly holding him up.

“Your guys are gone,” Blackbeard announced then. Shanks felt like he was hearing his voice from underwater, and it took conscious effort to think past the pain. “Looks like it’s time to end this.” Then with a bellowing laugh, “We had a good run, though. I haven’t had a fight that close in years!”

He was still gasping to catch his breath, his vision fading at the edges. The pain was everywhere, like the darkness itself was burning through his skin, eating him alive.

Then it shifted—the pressure around his arm didn’t loosen, but Shanks felt it climbing up his chest, until it had wrapped around his throat, forcing his head up to look at his opponent.

Blackbeard was before him now, watching him. And he was far from in good shape, Shanks saw, his black greatcoat hanging off him in tatters, and the sash around his waist was sagging, dyed brown with blood from the wound in his side. He was breathing heavily, sweat beading his brow and hair, but his grin reigned triumphant, wide with the knowledge of an assured victory.

Blood was dripping from a nasty gash in his arm, the last Shanks had managed before he’d broken Gryphon. He saw the open wound now—watched as little beads of darkness seeped into it, as though feasting on the blood, although Blackbeard either didn’t notice, or he didn’t mind.

“Don’t worry,” Teach said, flexing his fingers. “Your islands will do well under my benefaction. That is if they know what’s good for them. Not like they have any other choice, really. If they don’t like it, I’ll just kill them. They can follow your example if they want. Like Whitebeard’s guys. They didn’t know when to quit, and look where it got them, without daddy dearest to back them up.”

He snorted, and flicked the blood off his fingers. There was a hint of strain in his voice, as though he was in pain, but trying to ignore it. “You might call that loyalty, but I just call it stupidity. Newgate was already dead—what were they expecting, a thank-you from beyond the grave? Good thing your crew knew better.”

His fingers crooked, and some of the darkness around Shanks pulled free, sticky like tree-sap before it reshaped, solidifying into two obsidian spear-points, tilted at a downwards angle towards his chest, one from each side.

Blackbeard grinned, seeming pleased by the image; the elaborate set-up. “Two down,” he said, curled fingers closing to a fist. “Two to go.”

Shanks didn’t look at the twin lances, pitch black and sucking up the light, hovering with an unnatural stillness, compared to the twisting mass still wrapped around his chest. And he might have looked Blackbeard in the eyes, a final act of silent defiance, but he didn’t want his face to be the last thing he saw before he died.

And so instead he closed his eyes, and thought of his family—withdrew so far within himself he could no longer feel the pain; until he could not longer feel the hard-packed dirt under his knees, or the cold air biting his skin. Somewhere he couldn’t feel Blackbeard, or sense the sharp points of the dark blades aimed at his heart. A place with a blushing sunset, and flowers in her hair.

_Hey._

Her laughter was soft, slipping around his fingers as he threaded them through the surface of an old memory. And dipping his hand deeper, he sought the full sound of it; the loud, throaty quality it got when she let herself go, allowing it to pull him down, until it had submerged him whole.

_Come home._

_Shanks, come h_ —

The pressure slammed against him, so hard it knocked his breath loose, and dragged him back from where he’d let his mind go so fast Shanks wasn’t given time to register what had happened before the darkness around him suddenly let go.

Freed, he just managed to catch himself as he pitched forward, the sudden release of his bindings leaving him without purchase, and the impact sent a jarring note of pain shooting up from his wrist to his shoulder, pulling a hiss through his clenched teeth. Bowed as though for mercy, his arm shook under his own weight, and he could barely hold himself up, much less pull himself together to understand what had happened.

But— _conqueror’s haki_ , he realised dazedly, although it took him a second to recognise it, and the presence, bigger and brighter than anything else, seeming to compel even Blackbeard’s to yield space for it, and the realisation of just whose it was struck him as an impossibility, even before Shanks got a look at him.

Lifting his head with effort, it was to find two sandalled feet in the dirt before him, and impossibility became fact, manifesting in a wiry shape, so small compared to the sheer, unbridled force of his presence where it seemed to fill the whole world to the brim, the contradiction so stark, there was half a beat where Shanks couldn’t even wrap his head around what he was looking at.

Luffy inclined his head, a grin flashing under the brim of his hat, and Shanks could only stare, too shocked to speak, or to manage any other reaction than stunned silence. It felt uncomfortably like everything had ground to a halt, and it was taking his own body too long to catch up.

Across the broken ground of what was left of the island, he saw Blackbeard scrambling to push back to his feet, an agonised shout trapped in his throat, before it spilled out with a generous string of curses as he spat a mouthful of blood into the dirt. He was clutching his chest, the violent red imprint suggesting he’d been physically struck down, although Luffy didn’t even seem to have broken a sweat.

And as he raised his eyes, wild where they searched for the source of the interruption, Shanks found his own shock reflected on Blackbeard’s face, his earlier glee wiped off, replaced with an expression of near-comical disbelief.

“Yosh,” Luffy said, straightening his posture. Steam was coming off him, dissipating as it met the cool air. His skin looked unnaturally flushed, but his breathing was calm, his spine straight as he stared down the pirate before him, still on his back in the dirt. “We made it.”

Before the words could even fully reach him, the all too casual mention of _we_ , someone stepped into his periphery, on either side—a familiar figure casting a long shadow, and another that Shanks would have recognised in a heartbeat, having stood at his side for nearly two decades.

“Ben,” he rasped, and couldn’t seem to find anything else to say; could barely accept what he was seeing.

It didn’t make sense—Ben _always_ followed orders, had done so without question for twenty years. Shanks had counted on that being the case, this time as surely as any other. He hadn’t even entertained the thought that Ben wouldn’t. Not with Makino’s life at stake—not with his whole crew at stake.

“You’ve been mutinied,” Ben told him, without preamble. Shanks watched as he lit himself a cigarette, flicking the match into the dirt, before taking a long drag. “Captain ordered us to get you back,” he elaborated, once again without further embellishment, only pausing to add, with a look at Shanks, “And I follow the captain’s orders.”

He might have felt the not-so-subtle jab more if he wasn’t so shocked—and then didn’t know why he was, looking at Ben, and Mihawk, on his right. Luffy, having planted himself directly between them and Blackbeard.

 _Captain’s orders_. And Shanks didn’t need to ask who—didn’t need to think about it, because of course _she_ would. The woman who’d waited ten years, who’d looked him up and down and told him pertly that if she’d wanted someone else she would have married someone else, but she’d wanted him and _so there._ Ten years and several seas hadn’t been able to budge that stubborn heart, and of course she wouldn’t have accepted the choice he’d made for her.

He was crying then—he felt it, startled, but didn’t know how else to react, or what to do with the sudden surge of feeling that struck him, filling the spaces he’d hollowed out, that he’d willed to empty as he’d removed himself, retreating from what was happening in front of him. His death imminent, he’d forced himself to feel nothing, but suddenly, abruptly, he was feeling everything.

And then he was laughing, the rough, choked sound unrecognisable as laughter, and he hadn’t laughed in weeks, had forgotten how to do it and it hurt like _hell_ —hurt worse than any of his wounds, but he couldn’t stop, thinking about all the times she’d rolled her eyes when he’d cheekily named her a pirate and lamented her stealing the shameless favour of his crew, and _she’d mutinied him._

He could barely see past the tears, and he had the vague impression that dying probably felt kinder than this—this ravaging relief, which tore through him without mercy, along with the unforgiving realisation that he was _alive._

“Ben,” he asked. It was a struggle to locate his voice, to shape the syllables on his tongue, but he had to know. “Is she—”

He didn’t finish asking, not sure exactly  _what_ he was asking, or what he wanted to know. He almost didn’t want to, but she’d gone overboard, and he _needed_ to hear—

“She’s tough,” Ben said. Not _she’s fine_ , the words remembering a different day, and different fears, but Ben had never lied to him, and usurped or not, Shanks doubted he’d start now.

He looked to his right then, and the figure standing there, the cutting edge of his presence sharpened with that unwavering focus, and with an ease completely at odds with the fact that he was one of the last people Shanks would have expected to see, even having been notified of his interference.

Keen yellow eyes shifted downwards, fixing on him where he still sat on his knees, and, “You have looked better,” Mihawk said.

Shanks almost smiled, and the words were a knee-jerk reaction, although the hoarse quality of his voice ruined the effect somewhat, as did the note of pain underlying them, “You’re catching me at a bad time.” He wiped off the trickle of blood that had gathered in his beard, and tried to ignore how much it hurt to speak; how his chest throbbed with every word. “If you’d given me a warning, I would have prettied myself up a little.”

Mihawk didn’t smile, and the furrow of his brow told Shanks he hadn’t been fooled by the attempted levity, even before his eyes shifted to the wound across his chest.

Ignoring the look, he pushed to his feet, and had to catch himself—sapped of strength and with his head spinning, he almost lost his footing completely, before a hand came to grab his shoulder, steadying him.

“You okay?” Ben asked.

Shanks nodded. Even that hurt. “I’m fine.”

Ben didn’t look convinced, but when he released him, Shanks remained standing, although it felt as though it was through strength that wasn’t his own.

For his part, Luffy hadn’t taken his eyes off Blackbeard. Steam was still rising from his skin, curling around his elbows and knees, half-shrouding him where he stood.

“Straw-Hat,” Blackbeard said. His attempt at cheer was ruined by the tense clench of his teeth, but his laugh still followed; a dark, guttural sound. “Didn’t know you were here, too. Seems like you’re always showing up in the nick of time.” He cocked his head, something cruel flashing in his eyes. “Or—almost, anyway. You never did save your brother.”

Shanks watched Luffy’s shoulders tense, but he didn’t budge an inch. And Blackbeard’s sneer didn’t slip, although it had a tellingly forced look to it, and his eyes betrayed his outward calm; the frantic calculations of a keenly strategic mind, looking for loopholes, for any sign of weakness to turn into an advantage. He hadn’t anticipated this interference any more than Shanks had.

Luffy cracked his knuckles loudly, rolling his shoulders back. “You,” he said then, pointing at Blackbeard, the lone word like a judgement. There was little of the bright challenge Shanks had always associated with him in the gesture. Instead, the entirely level observation reminded him starkly of Roger. “You did that to her face.”

Blackbeard's grin lost its tense quality, widening along his mouth; the accusation accepted like a compliment. “I did,” he purred. Then with a gesture at Shanks, declared, “That’s my handiwork, too.”

Shanks caught Luffy’s startled glance—caught the surprise widening his eyes, and in that moment he didn’t see the young man standing there, but a boy, dark eyes round in his face as he’d peered up at the scars from his barstool, his question bright with an almost fearful awe.

_Oh these? Cooking accident. This is why I don’t cook, I’m a hazard in the kitchen. Just ask Ben—that’s how he got his, too._

Awe had been replaced with doubt; a change as quick as his grimace was vivid. _I don’t believe you!_

Shanks had stuck his tongue out. _Yeah? Well maybe I’ll tell you the real story when you’re older._

He’d gotten an impressive pout for that. _Why not now?_

He remembered catching Makino’s look from across the counter; remembered the poorly concealed curiosity on her face, the desire to know sitting plain as day across her whole expression, and even if she didn't vocalise it, it was easily as loud as Luffy’s.

But he hadn’t wanted to tell it—not so early in their acquaintance, the thing that had just gotten comfortable naming itself friendship, and that was hesitantly toeing the line of something more. And between the two of them—her even more poorly concealed attraction, and Luffy’s unashamed favour—he hadn’t wanted to relay the story of a battle he’d much rather forget, and with it, the person he’d been, who Shanks doubted would have garnered either Makino’s interest, or Luffy’s boyish worship.

 _It’s not a story suited for good company,_ he’d told them. _But I’ve got a better one! It involves bears._

He saw as understanding settled in Luffy’s eyes now, and abruptly the boy was gone, replaced by the young man who’d last stood aboard his ship, who’d looked him up and down and had refused to accept what he'd been letting himself become—someone who was no better than who he’d been at seventeen, reckless and selfish and oblivious to those around him; to anything beyond himself.

“Stepping in to finish someone else’s fight?” Blackbeard spoke up then, the curl of his lip giving the question a mocking edge, as Luffy turned back to look at him. “That doesn’t sound like you, Straw-Hat.” He grinned—pleased, as though his scrutiny had unearthed a potential weak point. “Nothing honourable about reaping the rewards of someone else’s hard efforts. That’s _my_ modus operandi. Or are you saying you finally understand what it takes to be the king of this sea? Maybe I should feel flattered that you want to emulate me.”

“I’ll _never_ be like you,” Luffy said, the utterance calm where Shanks had expected him to lash out, incensed at the mere suggestion of imitation, but it was no less effective than if he’d shouted it.

And it was a lesson that he felt he was still learning—the realisation that the little boy who’d loudly declared to the world, tears and snot streaming down his face, that he would be a greater pirate than Shanks had ever been, had long since fulfilled his promise.

Luffy’s next words were offered to Shanks, along with a grin that screamed juvenile defiance, and so loud it very nearly prompted his own—dragged it to the surface from where it had been lost, forgotten with the part of him that had died with his family.

And maybe the two concepts weren’t mutually exclusive, Shanks found then—the defiant little boy who wore all his emotions on his face, and the man he’d become; the uncrowned king who didn’t shy away from _feeling._

“I said I’d help,” Luffy announced, not an offer but a statement of fact. “We’ll finish him together.”

He didn’t wait for approval, or even ask for it, but then Shanks doubted he needed it—doubted Luffy had ever needed it for anything, and even with his orders ignored and his crew usurped, he couldn’t find it in himself to be anything but stupidly, selfishly _relieved_.

Blackbeard was looking between them now—gauging the situation, Shanks saw, but even Teach had to see there was no way around it. He’d expended himself, there was no pretending otherwise, and they’d been evenly matched one-to-one. Now they were four, and even if Shanks had no strength left to fight, Blackbeard didn’t stand a chance against these odds.

And it wasn’t fair, but then Shanks had stopped playing fair a long time ago.

“You’re outnumbered, Teach,” he said. It took everything he had to remain on his feet, to not sink back to his knees. He’d lost a lot of blood, the wound in his chest making it hard to breathe, and he’d been seriously injured enough times in his life to recognise a fatal wound. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold out before it finally caught up with him, but it would have to wait. He needed to see her first—needed to touch her one last time.

Now that the possibility was before him, he could barely think of anything else, near-delirious with the prospect, like he’d downed a bottle of whiskey on an empty stomach, but he welcomed the hope—the surge of adrenaline through his system, numbing the pain, his exhaustion a half-remembered thought, as realisation found him.

They could win this.

But he’d just finished the thought when he caught sight of it—on the far horizon beyond the island, at Blackbeard’s back.

“Ben,” Shanks said.

Ben’s expression hadn’t budged. “I see it.”

The once-thriving greenery that had caged the centre of the island was gone, the deep-rooted trees pulled from the earth and scattered, and they could see the sea on all sides with ease; Red Force in the far distance behind them, not having moved an inch, as Blackbeard had claimed, but that wasn’t what held his attention now.

Because there, on the horizon opposite, appearing along the silver line; a fleet of ships with black sails.

“Well, shit,” Blackbeard laughed then, the sound of it as startlingly pleased as the grin that chased it. He was looking in the same direction. “Looks like Lafitte called them after all. Despite my orders and everything. Heh. Guess I’ll forgive it. Always could count on that guy.”

He looked back at them, liquified darkness pulling from his skin, seeping into the air as he planted his feet, and his grin this time held little of defeat in it as he faced them, the approaching fleet at his back like a dark, gathering shroud.

“What was that about being outnumbered?”

 

—

 

She saw the ships as they appeared on the horizon, the black sails blotting the sky, a creeping shadow ushering an ominous promise that Makino felt with a chill down her back.

It wasn’t raining, although the whisper of a pale fog had crept back in, cold with moisture where it gathered on her cheeks and in her hair, and she pulled Shanks’ cloak a little closer around herself.

It smelled like him, and the warm weight of it was a fierce comfort, although it did little to ward off the creeping fear as it gripped her from within, like ice along her veins.

“Shit,” Yasopp spat, from where he stood beside her on the foredeck. “It’s sooner than we’d hoped.”

Makino didn’t answer, gaze trained on the fleet in the far distance. She counted eight ships, each one as big as the three they’d already taken out. An Emperor’s army.

She looked towards the island, sitting between them and Blackbeard’s fleet. She had no way of knowing what was going on there—if they’d reached Shanks in time. There’d been no further disturbance of the ocean floor; the sea beneath them was quiet, as though holding its breath.

She turned to Nami, observing the same sight. “We need to ready the ships. Which of you is acting captain while Luffy is gone?”

“Technically Zoro,” she said, with a glance at the swordsman—the one with no less than three swords hanging at his waist. He acknowledged the comment with a flick of his good eye, before Nami added, “But if you want a naval strategist, you might want someone who can actually tell their left from their right.”

“Oi,” Zoro said, cheek twitching at the breezy insult, which smacked of an old camaraderie.

Nami raised a brow in challenge, hands on her hips. “Are you disagreeing, or implying that _you’d_ like to be the one making the strategy?”

“Nah,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Just tell me which ship to cut first.” His gaze shifted to Makino. “Hey, you happen to know where your husband’s got his booze stashed? I could use a drink, with these odds.”

“Don’t be rude,” Nami said, although under her breath, added, “But yeah, me too.”

Before Makino could answer, “That’s no way to address a lady,” interjected a voice, and she glanced up to see the young man who’d enthusiastically introduced himself as Sanji sidling up to where they were standing.

He cut Zoro a look, which was met with a cheerfully crude gesture that was promptly ignored. Then to Makino, his voice dropping into a curiously mellow cadence as he placed his hand to his heart, “Please excuse this directionless sponge, Makino-san. The wolves that raised him didn’t bother teaching him manners.”

“Ah, that’s quite alr—”

“Who’s got no manners?” Zoro cut in. “You’re the one making a pass at an Emperor’s wife. On his ship.”

“Basic courtesy isn’t the same as making a pass, shithead. And it’s technically _her_ ship now.”

“Doesn’t mean she wants to commandeer _you._ ”

“A lady should be aware of all the options open to her. I’m only making her aware.”

Yasopp shared a look with his son. “Where the hell’d you find this guy?”

“Don’t ask,” Usopp sighed. “But sometimes I wonder if we shouldn’t have left him there.”

“Everyone’s aware of what you’re advertising, Cook,” Zoro said. “It’s not winning you any favours.” With a glance across the deck, he raised his voice to call out, “Oi. This tool is making a move on your captain. You guys okay with that?”

Makino took in the rising agitation, stirring like a rip current; the already strained atmosphere nudged to a breaking point. “Really—”

“Leave it,” Nami cut her off, nudging her away. “It’ll keep them distracted until we’ve worked out a plan of attack.” Then with a forced, breathless laugh, “Although speaking of distraction—I really could have used that drink.”

As though in answer, a flask appeared between them, and Makino blinked, but raising her eyes, found Doc holding it out. “Have at,” he told them, and then to Makino, “You’ll thank me in a second. I need to check your arm.”

Her protest rose up despite herself, and she drew her arm back. The pain made her feel sick, but the prospect of prodding at it further promised something worse. “It can wait—”

“I’m this ship’s doctor,” he told her firmly. “I might answer to the captain, but the captain’s health comes first, orders be damned. And being stubborn won’t help—I’ve put up with your husband’s crap for almost twenty years. I won’t budge on this. Just try me.”

She looked down at her arm—at the dirty bandage all but hanging off it, and the hot, throbbing pain beneath—indecision and fear making her press her lips together.

Doc’s expression softened a bit. “I delivered your son,” he told her then, and when she looked up it was to find a wry smile tugging at his mouth. “I was there for the full twenty hours. You’re the most enduring person I know. This will be nothing.” Then, with a huff that wasn’t quite a laugh, although his look hinted at a private joke, “And unlike your son’s delivery, this really will be over in a moment.”

He proffered the flask again, understanding in his eyes, but not pity, and the lack of it was so sorely welcome, Makino could have wept.

Emboldened, she took the flask, and tossed back a mouthful. It burned like fire down the back of her throat—it had to be moonshine, from the unforgiving taste, and swallowing it with effort, she had half a mind to ask if it was the stuff Doc usually used for his surgeries. But the warmth pooling in her belly brought a momentary relief, and it took away the lingering taste of bile and saltwater from where she’d vomited earlier.

Her cooperation a fact, Doc reached for her arm, but before she could latch her eyes onto it, to look at the damage, the cuts that ran even deeper than the ones in her cheek, a touch to her shoulder stole her focus, only for it to be claimed by the girl beside her.

“Hey,” Nami said, deliberately holding her gaze, as though to anchor it. Makino felt Doc peeling off the bandage, and winced when it met resistance, having stuck to the cuts, but when she tried to look again, Nami stole her attention back. “You know what will cover up a bad scar? A tattoo.”

Doc gave a soft guffaw—the sound earnestly startled, and a small wonder in and of itself. “She’s right,” he agreed, and when he pulled off the last of the bandage, Makino barely felt it, taken aback by the suggestion, but Nami’s steady gaze didn’t waver.

She didn't look at her arm, but, “They will scar,” she told her, matter of fact but not unkindly. It was said out of understanding, but like Doc, there was no pity there. She wasn’t trying to cushion the truth, to say that it wasn't so bad, or that all scars would eventually fade.

Makino saw as Nami's eyes went to Doc’s arms instead, her smile small and clever as she said, “But that doesn’t have to be the end of it.”

“I could do it,” Doc offered, before Makino could even look for her voice to respond. He hadn’t paused in what he was doing, the sting of the antiseptic making her wince as he cleaned the cuts, his movements quick and efficient even as he spoke. “Just tell me what you’d like. Waves would cover them up nicely, or I could do something from one of those books you love. A sea siren, maybe. It can be whatever you want—it’s up to you.”

 _It’s up to you_.

Her breath rushed out of her, and the truth of that statement should have been obvious, but even offered as it was, simply and without ceremony, it hit her hard, like she’d forgotten that it was the case.

And with all she’d lost of herself, it felt suddenly like she’d been given something _back_ —or at least the answer to how she could find it.

Without thinking, she looked at Doc, having begun to re-stitch the cuts. And they looked awful, the stitches pulled and the skin around them puckered and bruised, but somehow, looking at them didn’t hurt as much as Makino had thought it would.

She tried to imagine something else in their place—something of her choosing, set in ink. A permanent reminder that she had a _choice_ ; that nothing could ever take that away from her.

Lifting her eyes to Doc’s, it was to find a telling gleam in them, and his smile suddenly, fiercely knowing, as he told her, wryly but without a shiver of doubt, “Boss would love it.”

Her laugh was startled, and left her with a sob, but Doc only smiled, before turning his attention back to his work.

Wiping her eyes with her free hand, Makino dragged a breath through her nose, and, “Tell me how we’ll do this,” she said to Nami. She looked back at the horizon, and the ships approaching them slowly from across the water.

Nami nodded. She looked pleased, something warm and kindred in her eyes that she didn't put into words, but that Makino still felt, a curious assurance.

She drew a breath, her eyes cast out towards the water. “We're outnumbered, so our best shot is to pick off as many as we can, to even the field a bit," she began. Makino focused on her face, on what she was saying, and not what Doc was doing, the small, painful tugs in her skin as he continued stitching the cuts.

"We've only got two ships between us, so we can't afford to lose either of them," Nami continued. She paused, worrying her cheek between her teeth. Then with a nod, "Sunny will be on the offensive,” she said. “From the size of those vessels, they’ll have a hard time keeping up. We could skirt around, do what we can to take out their cannons, and limit their chances of attack somewhat. That might buy us some time, until Luffy and the others get back.”

Her brows dipped, her look considering. “Our Gaon cannon could take out one, maybe two ships, but it takes a lot of power to fuel it. And once we use it, we’ll be left at a disadvantage. We’ll be completely open for attack.”

Makino nodded. “Then we’ll back you up.” Red Force was fast—even with her superior size, she’d have no trouble keeping up with the Straw-Hat’s ship. It would be their speed against Blackbeard’s defence, and they’d have to be clever, if they were to have any chance at surviving a confrontation with those ships. Whatever disadvantage their awkward sizes gave them was made up by the fact that they were heavily padded, the raft-like structures giving the impression of a fleet of water-bound fortresses. It would take more than their combined firepower to take them all out. And that wasn’t even counting the crews on board.

They needed to wait them out—to endure the assault long enough to get Shanks back. Then they could focus on getting away—or maybe, if they succeeded in defeating Blackbeard, the rest of his fleet might yield, seeing no purpose in continuing their efforts without their captain. Makino had no guarantee that would be the case, but whatever happened, they needed to make the best of this battle, and to use every advantage they had, however small.

 _Setting the board is the key_ , Shanks had told her once, having taken mild offence to a naval battle in one of her books, in which the hero had secured a rather unlikely victory, by foregoing strategy in lieu of seducing the captain of the enemy’s fleet.

She remembered how his eyes had shone—the delight that had shaped his smile as he’d talked. It was a fond memory; usually when he talked about seafaring, there was a weight behind the words, an ever-present awareness that there was always more to it than camping on strange islands, but in that moment there’d been none of it, just a pirate’s shameless joy in his profession, and love of the sea. And Shanks had _loved_ the sea.

Makino let the memory find her now, a desperate comfort when she reached for it—curled up on his cramped bunk, the muted dark of his quarters lit by a lone lamp and her cheek pressed to his chest, the gentle sway of the ship beneath them and their unborn child quiet in her belly.

 _That’s when you make your strategy,_ he’d explained, holding the book aloft, as though to emphasise his point.  _The build-up is all about tactical navigation. You want to have the superior position, the wind in your favour and so on. Naval warfare is a game where very little happens at first, until suddenly, everything happens all at once. Then it’s about keeping a level head._

 _Or,_ he’d quipped, touching the corner of the book to her nose, his eyes bright and clever and his voice dropping an octave, to a soft purr,  _you can apparently skip strategy altogether and jump the enemy’s bones. Can’t say I’ve ever tried that approach before, but I’d happily reenact the scenario if you’re game. What do you say_ — _do you want to be the seducer or should I?_

She didn’t know if she was making the right decision, but they had to do something. Escaping was out of the question, and they couldn’t just sit on their hands and wait for Blackbeard’s fleet to reach them.

Makino raised her voice to relay their plan of attack to the helmsman, the order bolstered by Nami’s nod of encouragement, and her voice didn’t waver a breath. She was surprised at how calm she felt. She wondered detachedly if she was going into shock.

“All done,” Doc said then, and she looked down to find him tucking a new bandage closed around her arm. She hadn’t even noticed him finishing the stitches.

He smiled, and when Nami handed him back his flask, took it. “You let me know how you feel about that tattoo,” he said to Makino, before nodding towards the hold. “I’ll prep the sick bay. And refill my flask.” Shaking it to emphasise his point, his glance at Nami was meaningful, although she only raised her brows innocently.

Makino watched as he moved back across the deck, gaze lingering a moment on his rolled-up shirtsleeves, and the ink covering his forearms. She touched her fingers to the bandage, considering.

“These are good sailing conditions,” Nami mused then, dragging her attention back to find her considering the water. “But I could always change that. It might buy us a little time, or an opportunity to get close.”

Makino nodded, a bit uneasily. She’d gathered the girl possessed some kind of powers—not from a devil fruit; instead, they seemed somehow connected to the staff she carried with her. She’d cheekily called it _science,_ although to Makino, sorcery seemed a better fit.

She was about to ask just what she meant to do about the weather, when a cry tore across the deck.

“Captain!”

It took Makino a moment to make the connection, and to realise she was the one being addressed, but when she looked up it was to find one of the cabin boys, pointing to something beyond the railing.

She followed the direction he was pointing, and her breath caught.

“Oh?” the man who’d introduced himself as Rayleigh mused, stepping up beside her. He was looking at the same thing she was—the ship that had approached through the fog without their notice.

Yasopp peered down at the vessel, taking in the figurehead and the navy trappings, before he bit off a startled curse. “That’s—!”

“Garp,” Makino finished softly. She’d recognised it at a glance, but she hadn’t been prepared for it—not to see it _here_ , much less for the realisation of what it promised.

She watched as it covered the remaining distance, closing in on Sunny and Red Force, and when she was questioned if they should allow them to come aboard, all she could offer was a nod.

Two people stepped onto the ship. The first Makino would have recognised blind, the presence asserting itself before she’d even gotten a good look at him, familiar even as the man himself looked different—greyer, and more harrowed than she could ever recall seeing him, even during those awful months right after the war.

Garp came to a stop just a few paces away from where she was standing. He was out of uniform, at least in part, although it wasn’t his usual colourful civilian wear she found in its place. Instead, it looked like he’d pulled on the first items of clothing he’d found, getting out of bed, and his carefully trimmed beard didn’t look like it had been touched, much less groomed, in weeks.

He said nothing, just watched her in silence, his brows furrowed and his expression unreadable, although she saw the tense clench of his shoulders, and caught the way his hands shook where they hung at his sides.

Makino didn’t know what to say.

Next to Garp stood a smaller figure; a woman Makino didn’t recognise. She was pretty, dark-haired and dark-eyed, a fox-like cheek in the tilt of her hip, and the way her gaze swept from one side of the deck to the other, before they came to land on someone to Makino’s left, and her smile curved, shaped with fondness and touched with old teasing.

“Old boy,” she purred, as Rayleigh stepped forward. “You’re not dead yet.”

“Shakky,” he laughed warmly, although his gaze shifted to Garp at her side as he said, “Decided to join me after all?”

“Trouble calls, I answer,” she said, lifting one shoulder in a delicate shrug. “And I thought I’d check up on you. You’re not as young as you were.”

Her gaze came to settle on Makino then, and she had the sudden sense of being _seized_. Not unkindly, but the touch of her eyes seemed to take in everything, as though cataloguing the information for a later purpose.

She didn’t pause on the cuts. Instead, she seemed to be looking for something else, although Makino couldn’t place the expression on her face, but she had the distinct impression that she was surprised, before she’d blinked it away, her ease drawn back around her like a cloak.

But, “Little bird,” she said then, something desperately fond in the endearment that evoked familiarity, the feeling emphasised when Shakky told her, quietly, “It’s been a long time.”

Makino frowned. “I’m sorry?”

Her smile warmed further, and she flicked her eyes to Garp, who still hadn’t taken his off Makino. “Don’t mind me,” Shakky mused. “I’m just talking, and I like nicknames. Isn’t that right, Monkey-chan?”

There was a world of hidden meaning behind the deceptively casual remark, but Garp didn’t answer, or even acknowledge that she’d spoken, although his lack of reaction barely seem to faze Shakky, who only smiled, and moved to step out of the way.

The other people on deck followed suit, parting to give them space, and Makino felt abruptly _small_ , and young, like she was fourteen again, facing down the closest thing she’d ever had to a father.

And she felt numb—felt suddenly all too aware of how she looked, and how long it had been since she’d last seen him. Their last call had been a few months ago; she remembered it vaguely, the sun spilling through the windows of her bar, and Ace asleep in his basket. She’d been lonely, and hadn’t been able to hide the tears, happy to have someone to talk to, to tell about her son—how he’d grown, and the little things he did, the things she’d wanted to tell Shanks but couldn’t. She hadn’t dared.

But Garp had listened, allowing her to talk, to mention every little thing that could possibly catch a new mother’s fancy, like he’d listened to her when she was younger, talking about her books. He’d promised to come for a visit to see Ace when his work allowed it, but there’d never been time.

Her arms felt achingly empty now, her baby miles away. And she hated that this was how they met—that he should see her like this, after everything.

He must have thought them both dead, like the rest of the world. The thought wasn’t a kind one, but the worse realisation by far was the fact that she hadn’t even thought to call him. She could have, Makino knew—she could have _tried_ , when she hadn’t been able to reach Shanks that time, but between everything else, the thought had slipped her mind.

Looking at Garp now, the regret was almost more than she could bear.

The sob broke loose of her—tore past the careful defences she’d built, that she’d pulled around her to withstand what was coming, but when she crumbled there were arms to catch her, and the smell of sea and cigars beckoned her tears forward, along with another broken hiccup.

Garp still said nothing, just buried his nose in her hair and held her as she cried.

And it wasn’t a dignified display, but she didn’t care, feeling suddenly all her fear, and all her hurts, and just being held, being allowed to cry—being allowed to feel like the girl she’d been before all of this, before her home had been destroyed and her family torn apart—was the greatest kindness anyone had shown her in weeks.

Her whole body shook, but Garp only tightened his grip. The hand on her back pressed into her spine, warm even through the cloak, and when she choked out the words, they barely sounded like anything.

“ _I’m sorry_.”

His answer was just to hold her tighter, but Makino felt as he shook his head, the apology accepted, but deemed unnecessary.

Drawing back, he looked at her, as though doing so properly for the first time since stepping aboard—taking in all of her, the torn clothes and the black cloak, and her shorn hair.

He touched his fingertips to her cheek, careful to avoid touching the cuts, and even as he said nothing, the _fury_ that flashed in his eyes didn’t need a voice to be heard, but it was a welcome change to the sympathy and the guilt that she still caught in the fleeting glances of her crew.

The anger was _Garp_ , and the small, desperate familiarity was enough to buckle her knees.

“You holding up okay?” he asked her then, when he seemed to have gathered himself enough to speak. His voice was a low rumble, the rough quality of the sound seeming emphasised by the rest of him.

Makino nodded, and maybe it wasn’t the truth, but she had to believe she was. She couldn’t crumble now. “I’m still alive.”

Garp surprised her by smiling, and, “Yeah,” he said, with a gruff sound that could just as easily be a laugh as a sob. “You are that.”

He caught sight of something over her shoulder then, and Makino saw his brows furrow, but didn’t need to follow his gaze to realise what had grabbed his attention.

“What are you looking at?” Dadan grunted.

Garp just shook his head. “I’m not gonna ask.”

Makino smiled; stubbornly, it trembled on her mouth. “It's probably for the best.”

She saw Shakky and Dadan exchange a look, before Shakky’s mouth pursed, delight dancing in her eyes. “This is just like old times.”

Dadan snorted. “I hope not, or something’s bound to go tits up. And I’ve had enough fun already. Every few minutes, this sea reminds me why I retired to East Blue.” She glanced at Makino, something dark shifting across her features, before she added, quietly, “Although even that wasn’t a guarantee.”

Garp touched her shoulder, a silent question in the dip of his brows, but, “He’s not here,” Makino said, seeking Dadan’s eyes, as though for reassurance. “But he’s safe.”

He nodded, and peering over the railing towards the approaching fleet, said, “Probably for the best, with what’s about to go down.”

Opening her mouth, Makino was about to relay their strategy, and to ask if Garp had any further suggestions—then frowned, looking between them. “Wait—how did you know to come?” she asked. Because it was by no means an accident, their timely arrival. Looking at Garp now, Makino was curiously certain of that.

As though in answer, a sudden hush fell across the deck, and Makino felt rather than saw the next arrival—the presence manifesting, as though conjured from nothing. Dark and obtrusive, although not like Blackbeard’s was. This was less pervasive, not as all-consuming, although it was still a presence that claimed space, commanding attention like a thunderclap. Makino recognised it immediately.

“Dragon-san!” Sabo exclaimed, relief in his voice, but Makino couldn’t bring herself to feel the same, watching the figure as it approached from across the deck.

He’d forgone the cloak, clad now in a dark tunic and trousers, his long hair tied back, the ambiguous persona of an illusive leader exchanged with a captain’s surety, as though he’d donned it just for the occasion. But his presence compelled attention—and not a small measure of awe as the pirates on deck moved to allow him to pass.

She’d found him so intimidating, that first night on his ship, sitting belowdecks in her nightdress and with her son sleeping, Fuschia burning to cinders behind them. Now all she saw was a man. A dangerous man, maybe, but a man still. On a sea of monsters, the significance wasn’t lost on Makino.

And she’d already dealt with the monsters—a single man didn’t scare her.

Coming to a stop before her, “I would speak with your captain,” Dragon said, eyes still holding hers, his expression carefully blank, although she had the uncanny sense that he knew exactly what he was asking.

She didn’t step forward. She didn’t move so much as an inch. Instead, the crew moved in around her, like a pre-rehearsed formation, coming to stand at her back.

The corner of Dragon’s mouth inched upwards. “Makino-san,” he greeted. Then, and with something she might have called amusement on another, less serious face, “Or is it Empress now?”

“Dragon,” she said simply. She hadn’t let her glare slip, and found it sat with surprising ease on her face.

For his part, Dragon’s expression remained unreadable, but, “Perhaps I should consider myself fortunate that you left when you did,” he said— _left_ , Makino noted, not _escaped_ , although she was too tired to argue specifics where that matter was concerned—before adding, mildly, “Or I might have been the one usurped.”

She felt unreasonably angry at his thinly veiled amusement, and wanted to snap that he had no right to it. He might have allowed her to leave, but if not for him, things might have turned out differently—Shanks wouldn’t have thought she was dead, and she wouldn’t have needed to run like a fugitive. She wouldn’t have had to leave her son behind, and Blackbeard wouldn’t have caught up with her. They wouldn’t be in this situation if Dragon had simply saved her village without attempting to topple the world order in the same breath.

She wondered suddenly if that was why he was there—like a vulture waiting to swoop in, to pick off the carcass of whatever chaos remained after this battle was over. But that seemed more like something Blackbeard would do, and for all his scheming, Dragon had never struck her as similarly inclined.

And so, “What are you doing here?” she asked at length, considering him where he stood, with that same air of defiance that reminded her of Luffy, although it was a more subdued sort.

“I came to collect my people,” Dragon said, with a glance at Sabo and Koala.

Makino frowned, gaze shifting to Garp. They’d come together, but she doubted Garp was there for the same reason. And that woman—Shakky. Makino couldn’t even begin to guess her relation, or how her motivations intertwined with Dragon’s.

“Only that?” she asked, looking back at Dragon. She still couldn’t read anything from his expression, but she knew there had to be more to it, although she couldn’t for the life of her guess what else he could garner from interfering, and alone. Was he there for Luffy?

Before she could open her mouth to press the issue, she caught sight of something on the horizon behind him—a mirror to the vista at her own back; a line of ships appearing, partly obscured by the fog.

Sabo sucked in a breath, taking a step towards the railing. “That’s—!”

“The others!” Koala exclaimed, delight in her voice.

Makino watched the ships. There were ten in total, all with unidentified sails, and no jolly rogers, but she hadn’t needed Sabo’s clarification to understand who they belonged to.

The Revolutionary Army—whatever branches there were beyond the one that had taken her from Fuschia. Sabo and Koala had explained there were more, factions scattered across the whole world. Baltigo hadn’t been all there was to their operation; it had just been their Headquarters.

It did nothing to answer her questions—the reason Dragon was there, or why he’d brought his father with him. The Revolutionary Army didn’t interfere in personal matters. Even saving her had been part of a greater scheme. Dragon had told her as much.

But—ten ships.

 _Leverage_ , she thought, although this time, it wasn’t despair or even hope but _determination_ that prompted it.

Ten ships would give them the upper hand on Blackbeard.

“You owe a debt,” she told Dragon then, invoking that first conversation they’d had, the night Fuschia had burned to the ground, and he’d stolen away with all of its souls.

His eyes crinkled a little. “I do.” Makino watched him incline his head. “Although I would claim I’ve already paid my due, but I sense that you still don’t see it that way.”

She set her jaw. “No,” she agreed. “I don’t.”

“And it’s not to you that debt is owed,” Dragon said, but it wasn’t a rebuttal. If anything, it seemed more like a curious observation—as though he was looking at her, the same way he had in the bowels of his ship that first night; as though he was comparing her now to what she had been, saw what the sea had done, what it had taken and given since they’d parted ways, and wondered what kind of woman it was looking back at him now.

Or maybe he was looking at her now and wondering if that woman hadn’t always been there.

And it wasn’t like her to ask for something like this. She’d never asked for much of anything, not for more than she'd had or needed, and even the things she’d wanted she was loath to ask for. She’d only ever asked for her life to be quiet, for her son to grow up safe, and for her husband to come home to her.

But she was done not asking—was done accepting the decisions of others as they were made for her. She’d see her life quiet again, would see her son grow up safe, and more than anything, she’d see Shanks home to stay.

“Shanks would never ask you to pay it,” she told Dragon, because she knew his heart as well as she did her own—better, even, because for all that he’d hurt her, choosing her life over his, she wasn’t surprised that he’d made that choice. Of course she wasn’t. Not the man she’d married. Shanks wouldn't ask for retribution even on the brink of death.

But she was tired, and hurt, and all she wanted was her family back. She didn’t care about what this would unleash, or how the Government would react, and maybe that was selfish, but she was done trying to be anything else. She was a pirate.

She was _Empress._

And so, her resolve hardening, Makino lifted her chin, and told the most dangerous man in the world—

“But I will.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, she's come so far. I'm so proud of her.
> 
> (also if you need something to cheer you up after all of this, just imagine Mihawk, Ben and Luffy crammed into that tiny submarine)


	17. monsters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is apt. This chapter is a bit of a monster, but I hope you like it!!

They weren’t winning.

Swift and merciless, the thought breached the fragile defence he’d tried to draw back around himself, scrambled together from the hope that they might yet succeed. And he’d always been good at that, looking for the bright sides of tragedy, for loop-holes in times of utter disaster; had always been _good_ at believing nothing was ever truly lost, optimistic to the point where it had earned him a reputation of having a few marbles loose. And he’d used to relish in it, the rumours outrageous but their base solid— _Red-Haired Shanks would greet Death with a glass, and then proceed to drink it under the table_ —but it wobbled on unsteady legs now, the foundation of his personal faith so thoroughly shaken, Shanks was surprised to realise just how affected he was.

But losing Makino, and losing their son…even knowing they were both alive, he couldn’t seem to find a steady footing for his faith, to believe he really could make it out of this, as though part of him was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. He wondered if he even had it in himself anymore—to hope.

“Shanks.”

He didn’t look at Ben, but heard the warning, and fought to gather his wits, pulling at the unravelling threads of his conviction that wanted to come apart every time her face flashed before his eyes.

Seeming emboldened by the shift in his favour, Blackbeard boasted a renewed energy, even as Shanks saw the toll their battle had taken, and knew he wasn’t the only one feeling his fatigue.

But Blackbeard was all about showmanship, even in the face of losing. And Shanks knew better than anyone the folly of thinking him defeated prematurely.

Thinking of his own scars redirected his thoughts back to Makino, but he was glad of it now, the fury reviving his own purpose. And even if he didn’t quite know how to hope, he knew what to do with _this,_ an outcome in mind, and he didn’t have to hope for it; he just needed to do what was required to make it come about.

Blackbeard was right. They were both pirates, and Shanks had never considered himself a saint. He would do what needed to be done—for Makino, and for his crew. For their son. This wasn’t hope, it was _ambition_.

Blackbeard threw his arms out, and it was all Shanks could do to stay on his feet as the very centre of gravity shifted, seeming to pull his whole body forward.

He dug his heels in—saw Ben and Mihawk do the same, but Luffy countered the gravitational pull by shooting forward instead, seizing the opportunity like an invitation and without even a second’s hesitation.

Blackbeard’s surprise heralded a successful hit as Luffy's fist connected with his sternum, the roar of agony loud where it ripped into the air. Shanks felt the shock of the impact, before the pull loosened, and he staggered forward, catching himself from falling to his knees. His whole body protested the movement, and he bit down to stifle the groan that pushed up his throat, his limbs seized as though in a physical grip.

He felt dizzy, and blinked his eyes against the spell of fatigue, until it no longer felt like he was about to pass out.

Touching his fingers to his side found his shirt wet, and withdrawing them saw his hand coated in blood, the fresh colour brighter than the brown that had caked around his wedding ring, and in the lines and grooves of his palm.

Ignoring the implication, he wiped it on his pants, but glancing up, realised he hadn’t been quick enough, as he caught Ben watching him, the deep furrow between his brows suggesting it hadn’t escaped him, but Shanks ignored the look, and was relieved when Ben didn’t push. There wasn’t anything he could have said that would have made a difference, anyway.

He had to survive this battle. There was no way he was losing now, even to his own body.

He watched as Blackbeard shoved back to his feet, spitting blood, even as his arm shot out, but Luffy had already jumped out of reach, his reaction instantaneous, suggesting a familiarity with the dangers the Yami Yami fruit posed to fellow devil fruit users.

Lightheaded from exhaustion and blood loss, Shanks had a hard time keeping up with his movements, so fast the blink of an eye saw him disappearing, before reappearing again several feet away.

Wiping off the blood where it dripped from his lip, Blackbeard’s chuckle didn’t hold any genuine humour. “Learned your lesson last time, did you? Fine.” Cracking his knuckles, he fisted his hands, and the grin splitting his face this time was a madman’s rictus. “Let’s see how you hold up against my other powers.”

The words had barely left his mouth when Shanks braced for it, but before Blackbeard could throw his arm back for another earthquake, he stopped, his grin faltering. His gaze wasn’t fixed on Luffy now, but on something behind them, his previously triumphant expression deepening into a frown.

Shanks turned, seizing the opportunity of Blackbeard’s distraction to get a look at what had caused it.

And there, approaching from the distance, on the water where he could still see Red Force; a whole fleet of ships, having emerged from the wispy fog. He’d been too busy focusing on Blackbeard and the fleet opposite to even notice their arrival.

He didn’t know if the feeling that coursed through him was dread or just the opposite, but as always when no answer proved immediately apparent, Shanks looked to Ben, also watching the ships. At first glance, Shanks had counted eleven in total, all of them level with Red Force. “Who?”

Ben’s expression didn’t let slip what he thought, before he finally said, “Hard to see their sails from here, but if I were to wager a guess, I’d say the Revolutionary Army.” At Shanks’ frown, he shook his head. “Given their recent clashes with Blackbeard, they’re the ones who come to mind. Opportunism is the currency of this sea. They’re not the only ones who barter in it, but I wouldn’t put it past Dragon to seize this chance.” He shrugged his shoulders. “And Big Mom’s fleet is flashier. Kaidou’s, too.”

Shanks watched the approaching fleet, still wary, because there was no assurance in Ben’s words. He didn’t know Dragon personally, and had no way of knowing where his allegiance lay, other than to his own organisation and agenda.

But he knew his father, and his son, and even if they weren’t there to offer their assistance, they weren’t there to join Blackbeard, that much was certain. And even with Makino in the crossfire, they were better odds than they’d had.

“Do not get too comfortable,” Mihawk said then, and Shanks dragged his eyes from the fleet of ships to find him looking in the opposite direction. Following his gaze, Shanks saw one of Blackbeard’s ships drawing closer to the broken shore, having approached the island while the rest were steering clear.

Mihawk’s expression remained a blank slate, but his gaze was focused, fixed on the ship. “We have more company.”

They watched as it drew ashore, the crew on board disembarking as though they’d been prepared and waiting, a chorus of voices rising in volume as they charged towards them, rushing in like the tide as they charged through the shallow surf towards the broken landmass that remained of the island. At a glance, Shanks estimated at least a hundred pirates, but was too tired to count every presence, all of them clashing together in his mind, a chaotic, twisting mass of living souls.

Watching them running up from the beach, Blackbeard laughed, and to Shanks, said, “Looks like you’re not the only one getting backup.”

Luffy cracked his knuckles, and for a second Shanks thought he’d attack again, but instead his arm shot out, so fast he barely caught it, but before he could try to figure out what he was doing—

“Shanks!” Luffy shouted, before tossing something towards him, and he reacted in time to catch Gryphon’s hilt as the broken sword was hurtled in his direction.

Fingers slipped under the curved handle guard, the hilt fitting into his palm like it had been moulded for it, he was caught off guard by the rush of relief, gripping it until his knuckles whitened under his skin.

It was lighter than it should be, the blade broken in the middle and the tip blunt and jagged, but the feel of it in his hand was still desperately welcome, an anchor to his unsteady faith, having nothing else but the last shreds of his haki to rely on, and barely enough strength left to hold himself up.

He shared a look with Mihawk, who shifted his grip on Yoru, before striding forward. “Do not perish.” His accompanying look had a surprisingly dry edge, as he added, “Your wife would not forgive you.”

Startled, Shanks wheezed a laugh, although he felt how the words cut. “You always give the best pep-talks, Hawk-Eyes.”

Mihawk said nothing to that, merely dropped his shoulder, allowing the weight of the massive blade to slide off, before readjusting his grip around the jewelled hilt. The pirates were getting closer; Shanks felt the wave of hostile intent, ripened with anticipation as they poured in from the broken beach.

“Luffy,” he said, without taking his eyes off the throng. “We’ve got your back.”

The implication carried, the wordless acknowledgment of trust as Shanks turned his back to Blackbeard, and he couldn’t see Luffy’s reaction, but heard the determined breath he loosed, sharp and decisive. “Roger.”

Shanks looked to Mihawk. And it wasn’t the time to ask, but Ben’s answer had been carefully vague, and he had the sudden and unbearable need to know. “How did she seem?”

Knowing Mihawk as he did, Shanks knew he could have easily ignored the question, deeming it an unnecessary distraction given the circumstances, and probably rightly so, and so he was surprised when he didn’t brush him off—and what's more, was surprised when it wasn’t ambiguity or derision he got for asking.

The corner of his mouth twitched, as Mihawk flicked his eyes sideways, and said simply, “Regal.”

Then he strode forward to greet the oncoming horde, but it took Shanks a moment to catch up, forced to stop and catch his breath, a wild, foolish pride swelling in his chest, so quickly and so fiercely it left him momentarily stunned, and it took him a second to realise that he was _grinning._

It sat on his mouth as he moved to follow Mihawk, a renewed purpose shoving him forward, needing suddenly to see it—to see her like that, the quiet authority he knew better than anyone, and the unwavering heart that anchored it.

_Oh, my girl. What a fearsome pirate you’d make._

_Stop teasing,_ she’d laughed, with that breathless quality that told him she was secretly pleased, even as she’d told him, primly, _I won’t have it._

_No teasing! I’m serious. I’d love to see it. And I’m not just saying that because I’m seriously turned on by it, that’s just a contributing factor. Probably a good thing you’re not calling the shots, though, because I doubt I’d get anything done with you in charge. I’d be too distracted. You’d have to make me walk the plank. Or face corporal punishment. Ohhhh please let it be corporal punishment!_

She’d laughed herself out of breath, her accusation of delusion persisting, but he’d had no trouble picturing it—the challenging lift of her chin that remembered a long-ago afternoon, and _can I get you anything, Captain, or are you going to continue blocking my doorway and hindering my business?_

He wanted to see it.

The first pirate who reached him had his sword raised, but Shanks shifted his grip around Gryphon, knocking the blade away before cleaving a sharp cut across his chest, a gurgling shout cut off before it could fully drag free of him, and the sound had barely died on the air before he'd disarmed and dispatched a second, a third, a fourth. And his blade might be broken, but his skills were still sharp, and he’d always been quick to adjust—was recognised as one of the greatest swordsmen in the world for a _reason_ , and a sword arm short or a broken blade, it didn’t matter so long that he had the will to make up for a minor handicap. He’d never relied on his haki to take down his opponents for him; his swordsmanship was how he’d conquered the sea, before anything else.

And he was _fast_ —faster than Mihawk, who might have him bested in raw strength, and it made them an even match, but there was some satisfaction to derive from the barest widening of those uncanny eyes as Shanks carved through the throng, steps fleeting, barely touching the ground before he’d moved again, Gryphon’s broken blade cutting with brute force rather than finesse, but there was no time for artistry, or for anything but cold, hard efficiency, even as he felt an almost perverse thrill coursing through his system as he cut down one opponent after the other. He didn’t even feel the pain.

A presence manifesting at his back, and Shanks twisted the hilt to readjust his grip, slamming Gryphon’s pommel into the nose of the pirate who’d come up behind him, silencing the scream with the sound of a bone shattering, loudly and painfully, before he followed through with an eviscerating slice across his midsection.

His opponent fell, and in rapid succession, four more had followed suit, then another two within the same breath, and three more before he’d drawn another, before Shanks turned to find nearly two thirds of the crew littering the ground in his wake.

Mihawk arched a brow, observing the carnage. “You still show off as you did when we were boys,” he remarked, hefting Yoru back over his shoulder. At his back lay a pile of fallen pirates, the bodycount still considerable if not as excessive as Shanks’, and had the situation been different, Shanks might have given him grief for his ruffled feathers. His general aloofness spoke to the contrary, but boyish rivalry didn’t yield to age as easily as Mihawk liked to claim.

“Mind your injuries,” he said, before cutting down a pirate who’d managed to push back to his feet.

Smiling hurt, like he still couldn’t figure out how to do it right, but Mihawk’s irritation was as much of a welcome as Gryphon’s hilt in his hand. “Worry from you? I’m touched.”

“For your wife,” Mihawk corrected smoothly, although Shanks felt it like a blow, and wondered if it had been meant as one, as he added, “She has endured enough.”

He wasn’t given long to linger on that accusation—because it was that, and offered without apology—when Mihawk glanced up, gazed fixed on something over his shoulder. “There are more coming.”

Shanks looked back to the ship, only to find more pirates disembarking, a dinghy having been rowed to shore. And it wasn’t with the vigour of the first group that they approached. Instead of charging ahead, they appeared to walk in formation, falling in line behind a single figure.

“The vanguard appears to have been for show,” Mihawk observed.

Shanks’ agreement was a frown, watching the figure at the head of the group, casually stepping over the fallen bodies littering the ground; a wide-shouldered gargantuan, the long hem of his pressed coat soaked with seawater and his steps almost lazy with certainty as he made his way towards them. He had a black officer’s hat pulled down over his brow, shielding his eyes. A curl of smoke trailed after the butt of a fat cigar, bit between his teeth.

Shanks recognised him immediately, but then he’d made a point to know the crew they were dealing with; the ten captains that served under Blackbeard.

“Shiliew,” Teach crooned, his voice fairly dripping with glee. Shanks spared a glance back towards him, and found him in a stand-off with Luffy. “Just in time.”

Coming to a stop, Shiliew lifted his chin, the eyes beneath the low brim of his hat flicking towards his captain once, a perfunctory glance wholly devoid of courtesy. Shanks’ frown deepened, sensing that something was amiss, even before Shiliew announced, evenly, “This isn’t assistance, Teach.”

Blackbeard blinked, his grin slipping. “Eh? The hell are you here for, then?”

Shiliew exhaled, smoke billowing out around his cigar. “I’m taking over,” he declared, and Blackbeard’s sneer dropped, along with his jaw.

“What do you mean you’re _taking over_?”

Shiliew cut him an almost bored look. “I’ve been biding my time for two years, playing at piracy while you’ve built your empire,” he said. “I’m tired of waiting, and I’m done settling for scraps.” He swept his eyes across them where they stood, before casting his gaze out across the water, and the two fleets that were about to clash. “And you’ve demonstrated that you’re not fit to command this crew, let alone this sea.”

Lifting one shoulder, as though to gesture to the pirates surrounding him, “This is a mutiny,” he said, only for the declaration to be met with a rousing chant of approving jeers, from the crew who’d disembarked with him. Shiliew didn’t move, and Shanks would have called his expression disinterested if it hadn’t been for the gleam in his eyes, caught from beneath the brim of his hat.

Inclining his head to Ben, “Was this how it went with you guys?” Shanks asked, the question nearly drowned by the heckling pirates.

Ben hadn’t taken his eyes off Shiliew as he deadpanned, “She wasn’t smoking a cigar.”

The laugh that threatened was inappropriate, but also a fierce relief. God, he wanted to be able to laugh again.

Shiliew shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat, the corner of his mouth lifting in a self-satisfied smile. “You always said you respected an opportunist, Teach.”

Blackbeard’s expression was livid. “Shiliew, you bastard!”

Barely fazed by his fury, Shiliew gaze shifted to Shanks. “Red-Hair,” he said. “Looks like you’ve reached your limit. It’ll be two birds with one stone.”

Ben stepped forward, dropping his cigarette before stomping it out with his boot. “You’ll need a bigger stone,” he said, his grip tightening around his rifle where he’d tipped it back against his shoulder. “Or a better idiom.”

Shiliew considered him, but while his expression didn’t betray his interest, his voice let slip a begrudging respect. “Ben Beckman.” His mouth cut a wide grin. “A worthy adversary. Very well. Unless you’d consider a position in my crew, I’ll take you on.”

“Ben,” Shanks said, a quiet warning, but Ben ignored him.

“I have orders to bring you back,” he said, without even sparing him a glance. “Whatever it takes.”

A laugh then, coming from behind them—sounding winded at first, a soft, wheezing chuckle that barely touched the air, before it deepened, growing steadily in volume, and they all turned to see Blackbeard, bent forward with his hands on his knees, fairly hiccuping with laughter, as though he could barely contain himself.

Shanks curled his fingers around Gryphon, wary, and saw Ben shifting his stance. Even Shiliew’s fleeting satisfaction had eased into caution. The rowdy pirates had fallen silent, the broken island wrapped in an eerie hush, broken only by Blackbeard’s breathy, high-pitched laughter.

Luffy hadn’t stepped out of his defensive stance, but Blackbeard didn’t seem to see him, barely seemed aware of any of them as he raised his eyes, his focus on some indeterminable point in the distance as he bared his teeth in something that didn’t quite answer to mirth. His pupils looked larger, Shanks thought; so much that it was hard to see the whites around them.

“Insubordination, huh?” Blackbeard mused, the word breathless. “If that’s how it is…”

He curled his fists, and before they could even brace for what was coming, had thrown them both back, and only a split-second reaction allowed Shanks to jump back in time as the whole world heaved.

The air shattered, the sound like cracks shooting through a massive sheet of glass, and even prepared for it, there was no predicting the outcome of those powers as they ripped through the sea, and the already mangled body of the island where it held on for dear life. It was no doubt one of the reasons Whitebeard’s devil fruit had appealed so much to Blackbeard — not just for its destructive powers, but its sheer capacity for _chaos_. In Whitebeard’s hands it had been a controlled force, the meticulous shifting of tectonic plates; an absurd strength, and an iron control that had used it to carve out his place in the New World without destroying it in the process. Blackbeard likely didn’t see the necessity of that control.

His action demonstrated that now as he straightened, his eyes wild and his laughter still that high, breathless pitch that sent an ill shiver down Shanks’ spine, as Blackbeard threw his head back with a cackle. His body seemed almost to twist with the sound, his limbs contorting, bones popping as he cracked his neck and shoulders, seemingly in a stretch, although there was something uncanny about the way he held himself, the jerky movements and the grimace curling his lip as he flexed and relaxed his muscles, as though there was something moving under his skin, fighting to get out.

He grinned then, and Shanks set his jaw, knowing that whatever was coming, it wouldn’t be anything he’d used before. It looked like the fight had finally gotten serious enough for Blackbeard to resort to the rest of his arsenal. And how many devil fruits he possessed in truth, Shanks still didn’t know, but from the look of him—the way his body _convulsed_ , his skin swelling and stretching over his bones, as though to accommodate for something, or fighting to keep it in—the words that found him were _too many,_ as Blackbeard’s mouth split, so wide it no longer looked human, and when he spoke next his voice seemed to echo the unnatural rictus, having taken on a dark, guttural rasp.

“ ** _I guess I’ll have to go all out_**.”

 

—

 

The deck slanted, the now-familiar sensation of her stomach bottoming out registering before she lost her footing, but this time Makino reacted in time to catch herself before she followed.

A hand curved around her elbow in a firm grip, helping to steady her as she fought to stay on her feet, and she glanced up to find Dragon calmly releasing her arm.

“It would appear Blackbeard is still fighting,” he said, gaze leaving hers to look towards the island in the distance. Another crack had cleaved through the ocean floor, splitting the sea. Makino felt the tremors of the aftershocks through the deck under her feet as the ship groaned, the protest singing through the timbers, and spared a half-panicked thought to how much more she could bear. No ship was made to endure these conditions for a prolonged period of time.

The thought pushed her gaze towards Blackbeard’s fleet where it inched closer, lingering on the massive structures. She wondered if the ships hadn’t been built with their captain’s powers in mind. The thought was crippling.

Dragon’s words drummed a hard knowledge into her heart, even as she tried to divert her focus back to the immediate threat of the fleet. Even if Blackbeard wasn’t defeated yet, the fact that he was fighting meant Luffy and the others must had reached him. _That_ was what she had to think about.

She didn’t dare think about what condition Shanks was in. She regretted not having asked Ben for his vivre card, feeling now how empty her hands felt without it.

But she had to believe they’d reached him in time. She couldn’t do anything else. She didn’t think she’d survive this battle otherwise.

“Leave Blackbeard to Luffy,” Makino said. Dragon’s expression didn’t change, not to yield doubt or agreement, but she felt curiously untouched by his aloofness. She didn’t need him to respond—she just needed him to _act._ He could think whatever he wished, of her fear and of her stubborn conviction, as long as she could count on him to do his part.

He hadn’t verbally responded to her demand, although the fact that he was there, that he’d summoned the rest of the Revolutionary Army, already suggested what decision he’d made. And so, “What will you do?” she asked, an assumption that left no room for anything but compliance.

He didn’t quite smile, but a shadow of amusement passed over the hard planes of his face, before it was gone. “I will notify the others of our course of action,” Dragon said. “I presume you have a strategy?”

Makino looked to Nami, who stepped forward. She saw how her eyes lingered as she took Dragon in, and wondered if she was looking for the same things she had, the night she’d first laid eyes on him—to see if there was anything of Luffy to be found in that severe face.

“We’ll try to draw their fire, and give your ships a chance to move in,” Nami was saying then, having already altered their strategy to incorporate their unexpected leverage. Makino felt a flicker of awe at her rapid adjustment; she was still struggling to come to terms with everything that was happening. Just standing upright felt like a feat.

“I still say we keep to our original objective,” Nami continued, turning her eyes to Makino. “We just need to stall until we get them back. Then our focus should be on retreating.”

Makino nodded. Assistance didn’t mean they should count victory theirs; they were still up against an Emperor, and the whole remainder of his fleet. And she didn’t want to conquer anything. What happened after Blackbeard was gone was up to the sea to decide.

Nami nodded over the railing to Sunny, next to Garp’s ship where it had drawn up beside Red Force. Makino spied another ship close by, with dark timbers and sails. The one Dragon had arrived on, most likely.

“I’ll mask our ship to hide our approach,” Nami said. “Hopefully, it will catch them off guard. If their focus is on Red Force and your ships, they won’t see us coming.” She offered Makino a smile. “Like I said—it doesn’t have to be subtle, as long as we’ve got the element of surprise.”

Dragon nodded. “I will relay the plan of attack to the others. We will come in behind you, to offer support.” He looked to Garp. “I trust you will keep up, Father.”

“Can your cheek, brat. I’m old, but I’m not dead yet,” Garp shot back.

Dragon’s expression didn’t budge, but once again, Makino could have sworn he looked amused.

As he made to depart, Dragon nodded to her once. “Makino-san,” he said, with that same, curious lilt he’d greeted her with earlier, although it wasn’t mockery as he looked across the crew on deck, then back at her, his eyes lingering only a second too long on her cheek, before lifting to hers. “Good luck.”

Makino said nothing, aware that she might have offered him gratitude once, but she felt keenly the cuts in her cheek, and all her other pains. But more than anything, she felt Shanks’ absence, the void seeming filled with Dragon’s too-calm ruthlessness, a remnant of the night Fuschia had burned.

_We are all pawns, Makino-san._

_You’re not ignorant to the sway your husband holds. Or what he could accomplish, if given the right incentive._

“Incentive,” she said, and watched as Dragon paused. He had his back turned, but inclined his head towards her.

When she spoke, her voice didn’t waver. “That’s what you called me.”

She was aware of all the eyes on them, and the silence that held the deck. The furrow of Garp’s brows told her he wasn’t ignorant to what she was referring to; Dragon had no doubt filled him in. It also told her quite plainly what he thought about it.

Makino looked at Dragon, and the fleet of ships across the water. “But you’re here now,” she said. “So what was yours?”

She watched his brows quirking, the barest of gestures. She’d caught him off guard with the question.

She wondered what he was getting out of interfering, or if he had something planned that he hadn’t shared with her. Disrupting the status quo of the New World might provoke a reaction from the World Government, and maybe that was all it was. The ensuing chaos would be the perfect backdrop for the revolution.

She wanted no part in that. She just wanted Shanks back, and their son. In that regard, nothing had changed between them since that night they’d left Fuschia in embers.

Except she couldn’t deny that _something_ had changed. She felt it in the weight of the cloak on her shoulders, and the persisting throb of her injuries. She felt it in her whole body, her skin and bones, and the soul beneath.

 _She_ had changed.

And the way Dragon was looking at her, Makino wasn’t the only one who felt it.

A smile then, there for a second before it was gone, but he’d allowed her to see it this time. “I am, contrary to popular belief, only human,” Dragon said, the remark a tinge dry. “My ambition does not change the fact that I am susceptible to personal bias, and selfish feelings. Perhaps it’s merely that.”

He looked at her then, offering the full weight of his attention. It was the kind of look that left no wonder why people cowered just at the mention of his name, but nothing stirred in her chest under his gaze, not fear or sympathy or admiration.

The gleam in his eyes was brief, but she caught it.

Pleased, she thought, startled. He looked _pleased._

“Or perhaps you do not give your own influence enough credit,” he mused, with a flick of his eyes to the crew at her back, “although recent evidence suggests you have begun to take notice.”

The corner of his mouth curved then, and something eased around his eyes; it wasn’t the smile he’d let slip earlier, but something else, something that looked too soft for his face.

“For what it’s worth, I am glad,” Dragon said, the words harking back to the conversation they’d had, weeks ago now on the deck of his ship, and Makino blinked, before he added, quietly, “that my son was not without a mother.” He looked at her, eyes piercing straight through her. “In the ways that mattered.”

Her breath caught. Whatever she’d expected him to say, it wasn’t that, but watching him now, she found she wasn’t all that surprised. And it was one trait he shared with his son and father both—the fact that there was no predicting the currents of such a wilful personality.

“Sabo,” Dragon said then, reaching into his pocket to withdraw something. Makino saw it was a baby Den Den Mushi.

Sabo’s breath rushed out as he accepted it, turning it over to inspect the markings. “This is Iva-chan’s!” He looked at Dragon, and he didn’t voice the question, but Makino heard it regardless, finding it loud across his whole face.

He was asking about the ones who’d survived their last confrontation with Blackbeard. She tried not to prod too much at the guilt when it found her, knowing now that Blackbeard had been looking for her.

That quiet amusement was back, no more than a muted flicker in his eyes. “The Government once described us as cockroaches,” Dragon said. “Crude as the designation is, the sentiment is rather fitting.” He glanced across the railing. “We do not surrender easily.” Then, to Makino, “And we are not the only ones.”

She frowned, wondering if he was referring to her or someone else, but before she could ask, Sabo blurted a laugh, gesturing to something in the distance.

Following the direction he was looking, Makino saw what had caught his attention—something that looked like a dark cloud at first, but upon closer inspection, she realised that it was something else entirely.

“Birds?” she asked, squinting through the cold light. Beside her, Sabo was grinning.

“Karasu likes dramatic entrances.”

“You’re one to talk,” Koala quipped, but Makino caught the way her voice wavered. Brimming with tears, she hadn’t taken her eyes off the approaching ships.

And abruptly, she remembered—the girl who’d kept her company that first, long week after Fuschia; who’d known what it felt like to be rootless, to be new and terrified in a world you didn’t know, and who’d taught her, with her small means, to learn it, strike by uncertain strike. She hadn’t been much better off, had lost as much as Makino had, but had grinned through her losses and told her, every day, _get up, and we’ll go again. Put your weight behind it, this time._

Makino touched her shoulder gently. She felt how her muscles trembled, like she was shaking, and, “It’s all of them,” Koala said, voice hoarse, but the feeling in it palpable. With Baltigo gone, Dragon’s ship had been home—the people on it had been _home_ , and Makino knew that feeling better than anyone. And she recognised the tremor in her voice now, the relief at finding something you’d thought was lost, although her own was elusive, slipping through her fingers when she tried to grasp it.

Pocketing the Den Den Mushi, Sabo’s smile hardened, but the spark of rebellious excitement seemed only to have brightened as he turned towards them. “Cockroaches will outlive just about anything. I think Blackbeard needs a reminder.”

“Given our adversary, I would advise caution,” Dragon told him. “However, circumstances being what they are, I think the time for caution has passed. You are my second-in-command, and may proceed as such." Then, "As for your insubordination,” he added, with a wry glance at Makino, “I suppose I might overlook it, this once.”

Then with a nod of his head, he moved to take his leave. His ship had drawn up next to them, the rest not far behind.

When he was gone, Yasopp leaned close. “So,” he mused. “You’re on casual terms with the most wanted man in the world now?”

Even with the teasing tone, Makino couldn’t manage a convincing smile. “Something like that.”

Yasopp looked at her, having shucked his smile, but then she'd always been painfully easy to read. “You want to tell us what that was about? That thing about incentive?”

The way he was looking at her—the way they all were, all their attentions trained on her now—told her he had his suspicions, and by the furrow wedged between his brows, Makino wondered if he wasn’t that far off the mark, but she couldn’t make herself bring it up here, right when they were about to head into battle. It still made her furious, thinking about it; how this all might have been avoided, if Dragon had only allowed her to talk to Shanks.

She looked at Yasopp, skirting all the questions in the eyes focused on her, and wondered if her expression didn’t convey more than enough, but, “Later,” she told them. “It's not the time for it.”

She thought they might press her for an answer, but Yasopp only smiled, and said, so earnestly it stole her breath, “Aye, Captain.”

She didn't know which was the fiercer feeling, gratitude or affection, and she couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t escape with a sob, but was saved from trying by Nami approaching them, staff in hand.

“We’re bringing Sunny out,” she said.

Makino nodded, and despite the tears that still threatened, was surprised by how calm she still felt. Everything was happening so quickly, and yet she wasn’t falling apart. “Good luck.”

She saw Nami’s gaze following the direction Dragon had gone. “So that’s Luffy’s dad, huh?”

“Father,” Makino corrected, before she could think. Somehow, she felt the distinction was important.

Nami blinked, confusion furrowing her brow, before understanding smoothed it. “Right,” she amended. “Father.” She smiled, and reaching out, gripped Makino’s shoulder once, before turning to Sabo. “Are you coming with us?”

Makino saw him hesitate, his eyes going to her, but, “Go,” she told him, anticipating his protest. “You’ll reach the battle faster on their ship.” When his doubtful expression persisted, she shook her head. “Sabo,” she said, gently but firmly. “I have more than enough backup here. _Go_.”

Stepping up on his left, Koala bumped her hip against his, nearly knocking him off balance. “I’ll stay,” she said. Then to Makino with a smile, “We’ll be fine. We’ve got two good hands between us.”

Sabo still looked like he wanted to protest, but a glance at the advancing ships made his decision, and he nodded.

Turning to Makino, “We’ll win this,” he said. He sounded almost breathless, like it was taking effort to hold himself back. Being confined in the brig for so long must have taken its toll on his patience, and she could practically see the fuse of his temper burning as he told her, fiercely, “I’m keeping my promise. Just you watch.” Then to Koala, “Be careful, yeah?”

Her look softened into fond exasperation, and Makino wondered how many times they’d had this exchange. “I’m not the one who needs telling,” she said, and rolled her eyes at the grin he shot her, before he took off to join the Straw-Hats, who were busy changing ships.

Yasopp turned to his son. “You going?”

Usopp nodded. Patting his bandaged shoulder, his smile didn’t quite succeed in masking his wince. “Someone needs to man the cannon.”

Makino thought Yasopp might ask him to stay, but then he nodded, his grin firming. And he didn’t tell him to be careful. Instead, with a rough laugh, and so much pride his voice sounded hoarse, told him simply, “Give ‘em hell.”

Usopp grinned, before he moved to follow Nami, who’d been waiting for him by the railing. Makino watched them take their leave, the familiar, cheerfully deprecating dynamic of a crew used to dealing with terrible odds offering some comfort, before she turned her eyes towards Blackbeard’s fleet.

They were close now, on line with the island where Shanks was. It wouldn’t be long until they caught up with them.

Turning back to her crew, it was to find the woman who’d come aboard with Garp observing her; the one Rayleigh had referred to as Shakky. She was still wearing that curiously knowing smile, but when she spoke it was to the man beside her. “Roger would have loved these odds. Don’t you think so, Ray-san?”

His eyes crinkled behind his glasses, but before he could make a comment on that—“Wait,” Makino said, frowning. “Ray?” Something nagged at the back of her mind. A voice like whiskey, and a loud, rousing laugh.

_Say hello to Ray for me, would you?_

Rayleigh turned towards her, his brows lifting. “Yes?”

Blinking, Makino shook her head. The voice was gone, along with the memory, like the tide had dragged it back into the surf. Why did she think of a beach? “Nothing. I just—I thought I remembered something.”

His expression conveyed nothing but bemusement, although the gleam in his eyes told a different story, but whatever he was thinking, he didn’t share it.

Makino turned to Garp, mouth open to speak, but she didn’t know what she was asking. She still didn’t know all the details of how he’d come to be there, but she doubted he’d banked on an all-out battle between Emperors, even if he had arrived with Dragon. And then there was his position to consider.

“I’m not here on Government business,” Garp said, as though having read her thoughts on her face, his voice gruff but the words firm. “I’m here for you.” Then with a grumble that gripped her heart, muttered, “And your crook husband.”

He glanced back over the railing, to where Makino had spotted his ship. “I wanted to come alone, but two of my pups tagged along. Despite my orders.” He looked at her, and the pirates around her. “Although it seems to be a day for insubordination." He snorted, but Makino thought it sounded too fond to be angry, as he sighed, “Reckless brats. And Coby just made Captain. ‘Course, I don’t have to mention this to the brass.”

“Going to conveniently forget to file that report?” Yasopp asked, grinning.

Garp’s gaze struck towards him like a punch, his expression unimpressed. “I _conveniently_ kept from mentioning Red-Hair going in and out of the East Blue for two damn years,” he said, with a meaningful glance at Makino. “Not to mention his wife and kid. I’ve got over twenty years of ‘forgotten’ reports behind me. It’s an art form.”

Makino’s smile trembled. She didn’t reach for him—thought that if she did so again, she’d just crumble. Instead she straightened her shoulders, and met his gaze, the man who was her father in every way that had ever mattered. “Thank you, Garp.”

Garp just looked at her, expression still wrought, furious and loving and grieving all at once, before he swept his eyes over the crew on deck. And suddenly, he looked every bit the navy officer as he cast his judgment without mercy, even as he asked her, “You’ll be okay here?”

Makino nodded, certain in that conviction; in the weight of their presences behind her. “I will.”

He made a gruff sound, not quite agreement. “Better be,” he muttered, the threat offered without ambiguity, and his stare seemed to include the whole crew. Somewhere behind her, Makino heard someone muttering a prayer.

“I think I’ll join you,” Rayleigh spoke up then, the words kindled with a smile. “It’s been a long time since we fought together.”

Garp’s gaze swivelled to him, his rejection swift as a blow. “Not happening.”

Stepping between them, small compared to their considerable bulks but seeming happily unhindered by the fact, Shakky clucked her tongue. “Boys,” she crooned. “We’re all playing together, so let’s play nice.” She turned her gaze to Dadan, who’d been observing silently. “Will you be coming with us?”

Garp rounded on her. “I hope you’re not thinking about going on _my_ ship—”

“Might as well,” Dadan said, breezing right past him. “We’d do well to spread our fighting power a bit.”

Shakky hummed. “I’m a bit rusty. I’ll have to try and keep up.”

“This is more than liberating slave ships, Spider,” Garp told her.

The smile she shot him was playful, but the way she raised her brows felt to Makino like a challenge. “You might do well to remember just how many ships I liberated in my time, Monkey- _chan_. After all, you took part in quite a few of those operations yourself.” Her eyes shone, before her lashes swept down, veiling a sidelong look as she sidled past him, with all the grace of the creature he’d invoked, addressing her. “More conveniently missing reports. And the world wonders where your son got his rebellious streak.”

With that, she’d sauntered past, a last glance offered to Makino, which seemed curiously tender compared to the cheeky tilt to her smile. “Don’t fly off, little bird. We have some catching up to do, you and I.”

Smiling, Rayleigh fell into step behind her, along with Dadan, leaving Garp grumbling in their wake, before reluctantly following suit.

Makino watched them as they departed, dividing their numbers in her mind, ever aware of the looming presence of Blackbeard’s swiftly advancing fleet. Even with improved odds, confidence felt like too much, when she was barely holding herself together. But she was _trying._ That had to be enough.

Blackbeard’s ships had crept closer, but casting her eyes over them now, her gaze caught on something she hadn’t noticed before, making her pause. In the distance she could see something looming through the fog, a figure rising taller than the masts.

It took her a second of blinking her eyes to realise she wasn’t seeing things—and another to realise that she was looking at a _person._

Her breath felt like it wouldn’t leave her throat. “What—”

Yasopp made a sound of recognition. “Sanjuan Wolf,” he said, as though by way of explanation. At her disbelieving glance, he huffed a laugh. “Yeah. First time seeing a giant is always a ride. I remember I nearly pissed myself.”

Makino balked. “ _Giant_?” But looking back at the ships, and the massive shape of the creature where it emerged through the foggy veil, her disbelief wasn’t given long to get comfortable.

“Don’t worry about it. Size isn’t everything,” Yasopp said then, and when she suffocated a sobbing laugh, gave her the oddest look.

“What?” she asked, the word a little choked, but despite the situation, she couldn’t quite help the smile. She might have blamed her inappropriate humour on the circumstances, and the fact that she was a little on edge, but knew it wasn’t the case. And she knew who would have told her so, had he been there.

Yasopp shook his head. The look he gave her was suddenly, achingly fond. “Just remembering that you’re as bad as Boss is sometimes. Although I have a feeling that’s his own influence. You used to blush at nothing. Now look at you.” But the way he was looking at her didn’t suggest mourning for what she’d lost. “Innuendos right before we’re about to go into battle.” He sighed. “He'd be _so_ proud.”

He flashed her a grin, and Makino could have hugged him then, for that—for reminding her of the small ways she’d changed throughout her life without noticing, but that hadn’t changed her fundamentally. However much had happened, it hadn’t touched that part of her yet; the one that could find lewd suggestions in the simplest remarks, and that could still hope, even when everything seemed lost. Even now, after everything, she was still herself; no matter how much she’d changed, she felt that truth at her core. She’d learned to fight, but the things she fought for were still the same. The sea had changed a lot of things about her, but not her heart.

Wiping her eyes, she righted her shoulders, feeling the comforting weight of the cloak across them, the high collar where it brushed her jaw.

“Are we ready?” she asked, not just to Yasopp, but the rest of the people gathered; those left on deck with her, the ones not busy preparing the ship for battle, although Makino saw them pausing, up on the rigging, and those manning the cannons.

For a spell, it was quiet, and she rifled through her memories attached to the faces around her, and to the ship they were on. Afternoons bobbing in a lazy port spent listening to Shanks excitedly talking about everything from timber to canvas, and quiet mornings sneaking out of his cabin before the sun was up to open the bar, only to be greeted by the early birds already on deck. The evening of her wedding when she’d stood barefoot on the planks, when she’d bound part of herself to her soul.

“Ready when you are, Cap,” Yasopp said, rifle at the ready and resting across his shoulders. From beside him, Koala shot her a grin. Makino saw that Doc had re-wrapped her injured hand, but she barely seemed fazed by it, the same spark of eagerness she’d seen in Sabo’s eyes reflected back, although a far gentler fire.

Makino breathed, grounding her heels to the planks. “Then let’s do this.”

The roar that shattered the quiet this time wasn’t the same as it had been when she’d seized the ship for herself. This wasn’t celebratory, this was _visceral_ , the volume of their response seeming to shake the whole world to the core. Makino allowed the current to take her, drawing courage from the sound, from the sheer, unbridled _will_ that barely left room to breathe, as vast as the sea beneath.

From up on the rigging, someone whistled a familiar tune, the beginning notes sitting on the air, followed by a laughing breath, before someone else picked it up, and the feeling swelling behind her ribs was too much for her to do anything but sob another laugh.

“Once this is over, you could pay Boss back,” Yasopp told her with a wink, before he made to climb the rigging. “Write a shanty about him. Make it twice as dirty as the one he wrote about you.”

“He’d love that,” Makino called after him, before she could think, and heard as Yasopp’s laughter followed him up the rigging to the crow’s nest.

Koala touched her shoulder in passing, before slipping through the pirates gathered. Makino followed her passage in her mind, singling out her presence from the others, gentle but sharp-edged; deceptive, like a sugary drink, the sweet taste masking the sucker punch of the alcohol beneath.

She took a moment to sort through everyone on deck, surprised at how easy it was now, to pin names and faces to feelings—the thought that she could close her eyes and point, and know where they all were. On Blackbeard’s ship, she hadn’t been able to separate between the individual pirates, the throng of presences so overwhelming it had been too much for her mind to single them out, but this time they parted like water between her searching touches.

She counted them all, and tried not to think about the presence she was really looking for—tried to keep herself from _trying_ , to throw a part of herself out towards the sea, to the island, in hopes that she’d find him reaching back.

But he didn’t, and the sea said nothing. It sat, a great, looming presence in her mind, the most commanding of all, but Makino didn’t cower before it.

 _You’ll pay your debt_ , she thought, to the sea where it caressed the hull, and where it stretched out, vast and wide in her mind, all the way back to the quiet little ocean she'd come from.

The breeze threaded through her short hair, caressing her cheek. It wasn’t an apology, because that heart didn’t feel remorse, but it felt like acceptance—an answer to an order, found in the teasing rustle of Shanks’ cloak around her, and the soft creaking of the rigging above. Makino breathed in deeply, shoulders relaxing. In a moment not unlike the one where she’d stood on deck beneath the sea for the very first time, it felt like an alliance had been struck between them; a moment of perfect understanding.

 _For all that I gave you, and that I let you have for twelve years,_ she thought, dragging the salt into her lungs, so deep she wondered if it would leave a mark. _You’ll give it back, every minute and more. You owe me this, sister._

 _You’ll give him_ **_back._ **

 

—

 

They were in the midst of readying the ship by the time Nami stepped aboard, and Sabo stood back as she took charge, observing the curious efficiency of a small crew that seemed so well-versed in their tasks, it hardly required conscious thought as they set about preparing Sunny for battle.

Nami shouted orders with the unquestioned surety that they’d be followed, cutting a straight path across the deck, checking in on her crew as she went, before she came to a stop. Sabo watched as she breathed in once, seeming to draw in on herself, before lifting her staff, spinning it once, before touching the tip to the planks.

“There,” she declared, although Sabo couldn’t tell what she’d done. As far as he could see, nothing had changed, even as Nami said, “We’re good to go.” But when she looked at him, he nodded, not knowing what else to do.

He watched as she called for the anchor to be raised, before she made for the wheel. And recognising that he was better off just following their lead, he did just that.

“Sabo-kun,” Robin greeted, as he made to cross the main deck to where they were gathered. She was standing with Franky and Chopper, and seemed wholly unconcerned by the potential disaster waiting ahead, but then he’d fought beside her before, and knew not to mistake her level-headedness for overconfidence. “Nice of you to join us.”

His grin sat a little easier on his mouth. Luffy’s crew had a curious ability to inspire confidence where there previously was none, and seeing the rest of the Revolutionaries had sparked an almost restless eagerness in him, different from the one he’d felt, cooped up in Blackbeard’s brig with no choice but to sit on his hands and wait. Now, on a friendly ship, surrounded by allies, he felt the full effect. It was like being able to breathe again. Freedom never tasted as sweet as it did when you’d been deprived of it.

“Figured I’d step in for my little brother, since you’re one man short,” he said, glancing towards the island in the distance, where Luffy was. He hoped he was doing okay.

“One reckless idiot short, you mean,” Nami murmured. She was at the helm, and holding the wheel. They were putting Red Force behind them, making their way towards Blackbeard’s fleet. From the lack of any cannons being fired, Sabo suspected her mirage was doing its job concealing them.

“Alright, does everyone know what to do?” Nami asked then. “Once they see us, we won’t have much time to make a plan. We need to be prepared.”

“Just drop me off at the nearest ship,” Zoro said.

“And once you’ve sunk it?” Nami asked.

He shrugged. “I’ll swim to the next one.”

“You’ll swim into the Calm Belt is more like,” Nami murmured.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” she sing-songed, turning to Sanji, who was looking back over the stern towards Red Force, his expression curiously dejected.

Sabo cleared his throat. “Er, you okay, man?”

“One of us should have stayed with Makino-chan,” Sanji said, lifting his cigarette from his lips to exhale a lungful of smoke. Then, his voice raised, “I volunteer—”

“If you ogle her one more time, they’ll throw you overboard,” Nami cut him off. “Unless Garp beats them to it.”

“Let the perv be her watchdog if he wants,” Zoro said, shrugging off the top half of his coat. He was tying his hair back with his headband. “He’d be more useful than he’d be here, anyway.”

“Oh yeah?” Sanji asked. His previous melancholy had been exchanged with something that smacked of a challenge, even before he said, “I bet I can sink one of those ships before you’ve found your way off Sunny.”

“A bet, huh?” Zoro grinned. “Fine. Let’s see which of us can sink a ship first. Without assistance.”

“Ship _and_ crew?” Sanji asked.

“Of course. Unless you don’t think you can handle both.”

“Oh I can _handle_ both.”

“You sure?”

“I’m not the one with one eye and no sense of direction.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m not the one who can’t think past what’s in my pants.”

“Says more about what you’ve got in your pants than it does about me,” Sanji countered, lighting himself another cigarette, before exhaling. “Then again, three swords does a good enough job screaming ‘over-compensating’ without you verbally confirming it, but thanks for finally clearing that up.”

Zoro’s cheek twitched. “ _Oye_.”

Nami suffocated a sigh with her palm, before looking at Sabo. “Why are you smiling?”

He shook his head, but couldn’t help the grin. “Nothing. The bickering is just familiar.” At her bemused look, he shrugged. “Ace and Luffy would have to be physically separated once they got into it.”

She blinked. “Really? Ace? I remember him being so level-headed.”

Sabo snorted, but felt the ache, like a sharp jab between his ribs. He hadn’t known him like that. “Not when we were younger. Biggest hothead you'd ever meet.”

Nami glanced at Zoro and Sanji, still at each other’s throats ("you want to drop trou and see who's compensating,  _Eggplant_? Bring it on"). “I’ll have to take your word for it.”

Before he could respond—although he didn’t know what to say, feeling suddenly at a loss—the Den Den Mushi tucked away in his coat perked up, the nasal trill muffled, before Sabo drew it out, grinning. “Iva-chan!”

There was a beat. Then, _“Sa-boy!”_ came the voice from the other end, the shrill and heavily accented lilt such a fierce welcome, Sabo felt tears pricking at his eyes.

Beside him, Sanji went suddenly still. Then he said, very softly, in a half-horrified whisper, “ _No_.”

 _“Oho?”_ came Ivankov’s voice over the line. _“Is that a familiar vyoice Vy hear?”_

Sanji looked at Sabo, face alight with horror and accusation, as though he was somehow at fault.

“The hell’s the matter with you?” Zoro asked.

“I sense a story,” Robin mused, eyes twinkling. “You never mentioned you knew Iva-chan, Sanji-kun.”

Sanji looked ready to jump ship, and Sabo watched as he made for the railing, only to have Zoro physically drag him back, kicking and screaming, “Never again! _Never again, you hear me!?_ ”

_“Vy thought that vas vyour voice Vy heard, Sanji-boy. My, my. This is vat they call a predestined encounter, no?”_

Sanji was still scrambling to get out of Zoro’s grip, his expression livid. “Let me go! I want to go back to Makino-chan!”

“Yeah?” Zoro asked, still holding him by the back of his jacket. “I could toss you over the side, if that’s what you want. Heave _ho_ —”

Nami slammed her hands against the spokes of the wheel, and shrieked, “Can we all just focus on _the very real battle we’re about to sail into!?_ ”

Everyone fell quiet, even Ivankov. Sabo pressed his lips together, but to Usopp, murmured, “She’s scarier than Koala.”

Usopp answered with an understanding, “Dude.”

 _“Vy agree with the sweet-voiced boy,”_ came the voice over the line, from the snail nestled in Sabo’s palm. _“Dude.”_

“I suggest we start with the giant,” Robin said, the calm stroke of her voice smoothing ruffled feathers as she pointed to the monstrosity in the distance, standing taller than all of Blackbeard’s ships, before adding, mildly, “It would be unfortunate if we were crushed to splinters before the battle even began.”

“That’s a super morbid way of putting it, but I second the motion,” Franky agreed, and accompanied the remark with cheerful finger-guns.

“As someone who is—how should I put this—mortally challenged? I appreciate your morbidity, Robin-san,” Brook supplied. “But speaking of splinters—”

“If there’s a bone-related joke on its way off your tongue,” Nami cut him off, “I will scream.”

Brook was quiet. Then, “Ah, I don’t actually _have_ a tongue—”

The look she gave him amputated the remark, before her gaze swivelled to Sabo, who was still holding the Den Den Mushi, and who hadn’t been able to suffocate his grin in time.

“What?” she asked. “Any fire-themed puns you want to add before we all sail to certain death? Because this is apparently the time.”

Sabo just smiled. And how did you go about explaining that you were only happy your brother had people like this, who’d bicker and shout, but who’d follow him into war without flinching?

“I’ll let you know if any come to mind,” he told her. Then to the Den Den Mushi, “Iva-chan. Keep me posted, yeah? I’ll be joining the Straw-Hats for this one.”

 _“Roger that,”_ came the response. _“Vy vill tell the others. They vill be happy to hear vyou made it, Sa-boy.”_

The line cut off, and Sabo tucked the snail back into the pocket of his coat, still grinning—unable to help himself, despite the situation. But just seeing their comrades, having thought so many of them lost, was enough to make him believe they could win this. Being with Luffy’s crew only fortified the feeling.

The ocean floor shook then, so violently he had to catch himself before he lost his footing, but he managed to stay upright. The tremors lasted only a few seconds, but it was always an unnerving sensation, especially when you were already on shaky terms with the sea, devil-fruit wise.

He wasn’t the only one who’d grown sick of the unpredictable nature of the battleground. Gripping the spokes, “That’s it,” Nami breathed, patience seeming to have reached its limit, and turning to Sabo, she snapped, “Take the wheel.”

He wasn’t given the chance to protest before she let go, twirling her staff as she stalked forward across the deck, leaving Sabo to scramble for the wheel. Vaulting onto the railing, she looked out across the fleet, the massive ships rising up around Sunny where they’d crept between them, a lone sentinel between Red Force and Dragon’s ships at her back.

“I’ve had enough of earthquakes,” Nami said, before raising her staff again, swept it in a wide arc above her head, a gust of wind chasing it, sending her russet hair dancing.

Abruptly, the sky above darkened, a deepening grey to near-black, the gauze-stretched clouds swelling like bulbous growths.

A bolt of lightning struck the mast of one of the furthermost ships, searing white against his retina before a thunderclap shattered the quiet, tearing across the overcast sky. Sabo watched as the mast broke off, only to impale itself on the deck below, the wood having caught on fire, which spread rapidly along the rest of the vessel, orange flames licking greedily at the timber as thick, black smoke began to seep out of the hold.

Nami held up three fingers, before counting them off, one by one.

The explosion lit up the whole sky, fire and gunpowder combining in a blast that slammed against his eardrums, nearly sending him staggering back a step, the colossal structure like a powder keg bursting, a billowing cloud of fiery smoke mushrooming upwards, consuming it whole and eating up the air. One of the nearby ships caught fire; in the distance they could hear the frantic shouts of the crew as they worked to put it out, their distress deafened by another loud roll of thunder.

Mouth agape, Sabo watched as Nami touched the butt of her staff to the railing, and said with a chilling calm,

“ _I_ control the conditions of this battle.”

 

—

 

Like Fuschia, Makino felt the explosion before she heard it.

It was one Blackbeard's ships, towards the very rear of the fleet, but the sight still seized her heart in her chest, filling her vision with fire and smoke even as another burned brighter; an image forever seared into her memory.

It took effort tearing her eyes away, and not to watch it, prodding at the memory like a tongue to a rotting tooth, willing herself instead to focus on what was in front of them.

The weather had changed, dark and rain-swollen clouds clotting the sky above the enemy fleet, amassing rapidly, as though conjured by magic. Makino observed the rapid shift, knowing already who the culprit was, and she could see Sunny on the water ahead, having materialised between Blackbeard’s ships, seemingly out of thin air.

Aside from the one who'd been struck by lightning, the weather didn’t seem to hinder the lumbering vessels, but any advantage they had, they would take, and she turned her focus instead to her own crew as they made to follow the Straw-Hats, seizing the opportunity granted by Sunny’s sudden appearance, drawing their fire as the thunderclouds above swelled, tumorous where they seemed to pull down the whole sky.

Nami’s explosive distraction offered them the chance to move in for a pre-emptive strike, and she held fast as they skirted the nearest ship, the warning creak of the timbers seeming to shudder through her whole body as Red Force cut an arc around the enormous vessel.

The wind had begun to bluster, whipping the short strands of her hair around her face and stirring the heavy folds of the cloak around her shoulders, her lips chapped and her cheeks chafed from the cold. Like the sea was inviting her to dance, the bite of the freezing air nipped at her fingers, at the rustling canvas above, pulling her forward and into the throes of the gathering storm.

Watching it, the drums of thunder rolling overhead, a steady and terrible accompaniment to the cannon fire below, Makino wondered how many times Shanks had greeted the same offer, laughing.

A gaze sought hers from across the deck, and before she could give herself a chance to falter, she’d given the order; a single nod of her head, and there wasn’t even a pause before she heard the shout as it pierced the air.

“ _Fire_!”

She felt the sound of the cannon in her chest, and saw as the shot reached its mark, the cannonball embedding itself into the hull of the nearest ship with a shower of splinters, although it seemed to have little effect, the sheer bulk of the enormous structure allowing it to stay afloat, despite the booming groan that seemed to ring even louder than the cannon fire.

Another followed in rapid succession, her ears shrieking, but she didn’t take her eyes off the enemy ship, not even to look behind her, to see if Dragon’s fleet was catching up. She didn’t have time to doubt, not herself or that he’d keep his word.

A third shot was loosed; the sound slammed against her ribcage, so hard she winced, but this time the impact from the cannonball broke off a piece of the giant log attached to the ship’s side, splitting it down the middle. Makino watched as it came apart, the shattering groan of the wood at once the most rewarding and the most terrible sound she’d ever heard as the ship began to cant sideways.

“Captain!”

The shout from above dragged her gaze from the sinking ship to Yasopp in the crow’s nest, pointing to something in the distance. “Looks like trouble!”

She followed the direction he was pointing, until she saw what had caught his attention. On the island, one of Blackbeard’s ships had drawn ashore.

Panic washed over her, snuffing out the small spark of victory she’d felt, watching the ship coming apart.

They hadn’t counted on this—she hadn’t thought they’d divert a whole ship and its crew from the battle, matched as their numbers now were. But maybe Blackbeard had called for assistance—maybe he’d deemed it necessary. But what did that mean for Luffy, and for Shanks?

“Makino-nee?” Koala asked.

Makino watched the island, and the ship that looked to have dropped anchor in the shallow surf, but it was too far away for her to pick out how many were on it.

It struck her a moment later, the curious realisation that she’d been fully prepared to feel out the number of people on board. But even trying to discount it as a ridiculous fancy, she couldn’t shake off the certainty she felt, that she was fully capable of doing it.

Blinking her eyes, she focused her attention back on the island. She shouldn’t be worried. Luffy was there with Ben and Mihawk, but that had been against Blackbeard alone. A whole crew…

“Move in,” she was saying then, before she even knew what she was doing. She turned to the navigator, who had the helm. “We’re leaving the others to Dragon.”

She got a nod of agreement, before the order was relayed, their course adjusted, although it still left the sinking ship straight ahead of them. Makino saw her crew scrambling to climb up the slanting deck, the sea pulling it down on one side, the water rushing in through the cracks in the hull.

Beside her, Koala watched the ship, her mouth pursed. “They won’t let us pass that easily.”

As she said it, Makino saw what she was referring to—the pirates not panicking, who had another purpose in mind, some readying grappling hooks, while others had scrambled into smaller boats, covering the distance between the sinking ship and theirs.

“Then we fight our way through,” Makino said, and turning away from the railing, shouted the order, surprised at how steady her voice sounded, the pitch unwavering as she called all hands on deck to prepare.

She had a vague inkling that it could be the adrenaline’s doing, keeping her so calm, but couldn’t be bothered with worrying what would happen when it eventually trickled out. She’d known there would be fighting. She wasn’t going to cower now, after everything.

“ _We’re being boarded!_ ”

She didn’t allow herself to feel fear as the warning tolled between the tumult on deck, only braced herself for what was coming. This was one crew. They’d sunk three of Blackbeard’s ships already, and even with their force scattered, a single ship and crew wouldn’t be enough to defeat Shanks’. Hers, now.

The first pirate who swung over the railing had barely touched down before he went back over the side. Makino didn’t look towards the crow’s nest, but could trace the trajectory of the bullet behind her eyes—felt the next sally of shots before they were even loosed, and knew which pirates would fall even before they did.

It was a disconcerting feeling, that uncanny prediction, but wherever it came from, she welcomed it now, relishing in the awareness it gave her, helping her make sense of the chaos unfolding around her.

The next group of pirates fell before they’d set foot aboard, Yasopp’s bullets hitting their mark and sending them back over the railing into the water before they’d had the chance to realise what had happened. And then there were others joining him, holding off their assault with swords and pistols and their bare hands, halting the boarding with a reckless, almost delighted fervour that might have caught her off guard, if she hadn’t been prepared for it.

She heard the screams as they were brutally silenced, and saw the blood spraying the planks, the pungent smell clogging her nose and the awful cacophony of the battle carving itself into her mind. And even prepared, Makino felt herself faltering, stumbling back as she watched them take down the enemy crew without even pausing for breath, let alone for mercy. She _felt_ as their lives ended, snuffed out like candles, one after the other and each seeming to leave a cold imprint in her mind, her heart aching from it, even knowing they meant her harm—that they were her enemies, and that they wouldn’t have hesitated a second to end _her_ life. She still felt them all, each loss like a blow, making her stagger back.

And more than sensing them killing the enemy, it hurt _watching_ them do it. She’d only known this crew as kind—as loud and rowdy and good-natured; as protective, but never to this violent extent.

But they were still pirates. They always had been that, even if they’d never shown her this side of themselves. They’d never needed to, or maybe even wanted her to know them like this, but things had changed. Makino remembered their faces, standing on Blackbeard’s ship—remembered that barely-contained fury, and the unanimous agreement to Ben’s bargain; the effortless exchange of her life for theirs. And even with their deal void, they’d never meant to let Blackbeard go unpunished. She would have been naive to believe that.

But it was one thing knowing it, and quite another seeing it playing out before her eyes, no longer a cheerful filter between their world and hers, shielding her from the worst of it. Their worlds were one and the same now.

She felt her breath coming faster, their shouting ringing in her ears with the clash of swords and bullets sinking into flesh, and she tried to drown out the din with the memory of their laughter but found herself coming up short, frozen where she stood, caught in the whirlpool of bloodlust and fighting with nothing familiar to hold on to.

Someone touched her shoulder, a large hand clamping around it, not forcefully but the grip still grounding, seeming to drag her back from her sudden, downward spiral, and Makino glanced up, startled, only to find a familiar bulk and grin looming above her, and a pair of deep-set eyes seeking hers.

The monkey hanging off his shoulder chittered, sliding down from his perch as he reached out to give her hair a tug, a familiar show of affection followed by a soft tail curling around her neck, the contact abruptly resurfacing memories of busy afternoons in her bar, and a warm, fuzzy shape clinging to her back while she worked, a soft tail swinging behind her, tugging playfully at her apron strings.

Her breath rushed out, sharply like someone had struck her between her ribs.

The nimble fingers in her hair pawed through the short strands, gently searching, and, “Hey,” came the laughing warning from the man who'd been carrying him, booming voice loud over the fighting. “You can flirt with her later.” He grinned at Makino. “You’re still his favourite. I try not to take it personally.”

Monstar chittered, as though in retaliation, his tongue stuck out. Makino felt his tail uncurling from around her neck, brushing along her cheek as he climbed back to his former perch, but not without giving another tug at her hair.

She was subjected to a searching look, those deep-set eyes holding hers, before he glanced towards the others, busy fighting off the pirates boarding the ship. “Might want to keep back,” he told her. “We get a little rowdy when we’re excited.” Then with a widening grin—on another face as hard and angular, it would have looked off-putting, but she knew all their tempers and all their smiles, and recognised the fierce affection it in—he rumbled, “But you already know that.”

She didn’t know if he’d caught onto what she was feeling. It was likely, with how terrible she was at hiding her thoughts, but whatever his reasons for reminding her, it was what she needed.

Catching her wavering smile, he slipped her a wink, before he threw himself into the fighting with a roar, Monstar clinging to his shoulders, and echoing the sentiment with a loud shriek.

It didn’t take long before she’d lost sight them, swallowed by the battle. There were pirates pouring over the railing, the sheer, overwhelming number too great for them to hold back from boarding, and for Makino to try and keep count as the fighting overtook the main deck. And then it was everything she could do to keep track of what was happening, if only to keep herself out of it.

She didn’t have any weapons—didn’t have any skills, or any powers that would make her useful in a fight, not even a weapon _on_ her, but even if she'd had one, she didn’t know if she could have used it effectively, the fingers of her right hand too stiff to hold a pistol, or even a knife. The best she could do for her crew was to stay out of the fighting, and to stay alive.

She saw one of Blackbeard’s pirates moving towards her—caught the intent in the gleam of the pistol that was raised, pointed in her direction—but before he could pull the trigger, Lucky’s fist connected with his jaw, sending him sprawling across the deck, and he’d barely paused for breath before he’d reached for the next one, fingers fisting in the collar of his shirt, before tossing him overboard.

A glance over his shoulder sought Makino, the exchange silent but clear, and she nodded, keeping him in her periphery along with Koala, who was cheerfully ploughing her way through Blackbeard’s pirates with one hand.

She brushed her bloodied knuckles on her ripped blouse, and Lucky looked her over once, impressed. “How much do you lift?”

Her grin brightened, seeming pleased by the question, but, “Why?” she countered, laughing. “Want to compare?” She punctuated her point by tossing a man twice her size over the railing.

Lucky grinned, before casually knocking a pirate out cold by slamming his face into the main mast.

For her part, Makino tried to keep count of the pirates who’d boarded, if not by sight then by sense, sorting enemies from her own crew, counting them as they appeared, and as they abruptly ceased existing, the last usually preceded by a gunshot, and Yasopp’s presence remained a fixed point at the back of her mind, in the crow’s nest above.

She was rifling through them when she felt it—a presence that singled itself out from the others, seeming somehow sharper, like it meant to make itself known, and she’d just spun around in time to see a large figure hoisting itself over the railing, to land before her.

It took her a moment to realise that it was a woman, as she straightened herself to her full height. She was _tall_ —taller than any woman Makino had ever seen, including Dadan. A set of broad shoulders carried a bright pink cloak, the collar high where it brushed a severe jawline. She had a long, sharply protruding nose, and black eyes set deep in her face, framed with thick lashes. Her hair was similarly dark, and pulled into girlish pigtails which seemed at odds with the rest of her, along with the beaded necklace resting across her collar and the heeled shoes; a heavily contrasting picture of hard, mannish angles and feminine details.

“My,” she said, her grin edged with distaste as she swept her gaze over Makino once. Her voice was deep, and ripe with mockery. “What a little thing you are.”

Makino took a step back, but found herself suddenly halted by the railing—Blackbeard’s pirates had overrun the deck, cutting her off from her own crew.

Trying not to panic, she willed herself to stay calm. She felt the others across the deck, but couldn’t see them, and didn’t dare take her eyes off the woman in front of her, who was observing her like she knew exactly who she’d come upon.

“Catarina Devon,” she introduced herself then. Her lip curled, revealing her teeth; a wide, predatory leer.

Makino didn’t return the courtesy, but then from the look on her face, she already knew who she was.

“I’d heard Red-Hair got married,” she mused, confirming her suspicions. She lifted the spear in her hand, twirling the haft lazily along her palm, before making a sweeping gesture, as though to indicate Makino. “Although I'd expected something a little…more.” She cocked her head, a cruelly considering look. “I’ve always found him attractive. Something about men with scars.” Her eyes went to her cheek, fixing on the cuts without apology. “Not as attractive on a woman, I’m afraid.”

Makino allowed the slight to bounce off her, focusing instead on the spear in her grip. She hadn’t moved to use it, but she wasn’t about to let her guard down just because she seemed to be in a particularly talkative mood.

She didn’t know what came over her, but there was a reckless sort of antagonism rising up her chest; the inexplicable urge to stand her ground, even as the rational part of her knew she had nothing to offer in a one-on-one fight with this woman, who was clearly more than just a grunt member of Blackbeard’s crew.

Makino pressed her lips together, spine straight and her chin lifted. “Get off my ship.”

That only made her smile widen, as though amused by the order. “You look like the Admiral’s type,” she said, the remark musing but coloured with spite, sounding almost jealous. “Did he have his fun with you, I wonder?”

Something in her snapped. She didn’t know what it was, the casual suggestion of rape, which had already been used against her several times by the man himself, or her condescending amusement, but it was enough. She’d had _enough_.

Makino snarled, the sound rising, near-guttural where it ripped from her mouth. “ _Get. Off. My. Ship_.”

That cruel grin slipped a bit, although the sneer still remained. “Your ship? Must be very literal, your marriage vows—”

Makino felt the shot even before Yasopp pulled the trigger, and felt that it wouldn’t hit before the woman had raised her spear, deflecting the bullet without even lifting her eyes to the crow’s nest.

“You’ll have to try a little harder than that,” she said, her voice raised to reach him. Her eyes flashed, hard as flint. “I’m proficient in observation haki. You won’t catch me off guard so easily.”

She hadn't taken her eyes off Makino, but addressed her now. “I’ll enjoy killing you, I think,” she fairly purred. “Look at you. You can barely stand on your own two feet. You’re a fawn, barely worth the effort of hunting.” Her grin deepened, into something feral and terrible as she stroked her fingertips along the haft of her spear. “But I hunt the meek. They’re the most satisfying prey. The prettiest skins, and the loveliest screams.”

She didn’t pause for effect this time. Instead she launched herself forward, so fast Makino had barely even seen her move, the sharp tip of her spear angled towards her chest.

“ _Makino—!_ ”

She heard her name as it lanced through the air, piercing the din of the fighting, but couldn’t tell who’d shouted it, the sound suddenly muffled, like someone had stuffed her ears with cotton.

She had that sensation again, the one she was growing rapidly familiar with, that she’d felt aboard Blackbeard’s ship when he’d raised his hand to her, and when she’d broken the nose of that pirate. It was the sense that everything slowed down, that the world was moving at a different pace, a beat slower than she was, her body seeming suddenly to exist outside of time. It was the sense of knowing what would happen, right before it did.

It was the sense of being _in control._

Having deduced the intended trajectory of the spear, she _moved_ —sidestepped the attack, a hair's breadth away from impaling her, but instead of finding soft flesh, the spear caught the edge of Shanks’ cloak. Makino heard the fabric tearing, but she’d twisted herself loose before the woman had the chance to draw her weapon back, shoving to her feet as she did, the spear’s tip released from the tangle of fabric. She fumbled the haft, but caught it before it could clatter to the planks.

Her eyes when they found Makino next were wide with fury, and the grin on her mouth sat a little harder than before.

“A _quick_ little fawn,” she amended, twirling the spear. “Very well. We’ll see just how quick.”

She wasn’t given time to think.

She felt the others reacting, and heard her name echoed several ways, but as the spear came down this time, Makino knew she wouldn’t be quick enough to dodge it. Not fully. She might avoid a fatal blow, but it would _hurt_.

Curiously, the knowledge of imminent pain didn’t make her quail, as she’d thought it would.

But before the spear could find its mark, a sudden tremor shook the ocean floor, greater than any she’d felt yet, an earthquake so powerful it felt like it would rip the whole world apart.

She hit the deck so hard she saw stars, her bandaged arm taking the brunt of her fall, before she was sent tumbling down the length of it, along with all the bodies on board, scrambling to grab onto anything to keep from going over the side.

Someone collided with her painfully, knocking her breath loose, and she couldn’t tell her surroundings apart, everything happening too fast for her too keep up, but she felt the shudder that rocked the ship, the timbers creaking as the deck tilted sharply to the side.

A hand grabbed hold of her good arm, halting her descent halfway across the deck, and through the chaos she discerned a familiar face and blond ponytail, his jaw set and his expression contorted from the strain of their combined weights against the ship’s diagonal angle where he’d hooked his other arm around one of the balusters. "I've got you!"

A second tremor ripped through the seabed, and Makino felt the hand around her arm tightening its grip, and the shout he bit off with his teeth was swallowed by the shriek of the timbers, and the rush of water below. Turning her head to look, the sight of the ocean trapped her heart in her throat.

An enormous crack had formed, the ocean floor having split clean in half, before caving in on itself, and the ship was being dragged into the newly formed crevasse, water rushing down from either side towards the bottom. Makino realised what would happen already before it did, but couldn’t open her mouth in time to shout a warning.

She felt the collision of the water, the shockwave knocking against her chest and the _boom_ drowning out everything else as the upsurge caused by the impact pitched the whole ship upwards, like someone had snatched the ocean like a rug out from under their feet.

The world flipped upside-down. Sea and sky switched places, and she had the uncomfortable sense of being suspended in mid-air, as though time had slowed down again, but this time she wasn't in control.

Then they were falling.

The scream wouldn’t leave her throat, choked off as time suddenly sped up, rushing in like the water below as the ship plunged through the air, hull bared to the sky and her masts angled towards the sea. Makino felt the hand around her arm slipping, the pain from the fingers digging into her skin yielding even as they scrambled to hold on, and she saw more than heard him shouting her name, his mouth shaping it, and the scar across his brow pulled taut with horror as she slipped from his grip.

The wind rushed past her, whipping the folds of the cloak and stinging where it cut her cheeks, dragging tears from her eyes as she fell, plummeting through the air towards the heaving sea, the chasm formed by the crack in the ocean floor making it look like a giant maw had opened up, and realisation struck, quickly and without mercy.

She was going to die.

She saw the woman who’d come aboard earlier, the bright pink of her cloak standing out amidst the chaos of falling bodies. Makino watched as she hit the water, the brutal force of the impact enough to shatter bones, before the sea dragged her under, drowning the scream that had risen from her throat. And she saw as more pirates followed, but couldn’t tell if they were Blackbeard’s crew or her own; could only focus on the wind lashing against her, her eyes filling with tears.

Clenching them shut, she braced for impact, knowing already that she wouldn’t survive it, this time—that there was no way she could. Not from this height. The sea had let her go once, but Makino doubted she’d show her mercy a second time.

 _No_ , she thought, shoving back against the resignation that sought to find her, even as there was nothing she could do, nothing that would change her fate now. All she could do was fall, and at least with the sea you could _swim_ ; with the sky there was no fighting it, unless you had wings. _I’m not ready!_

The words—not a prayer, not even a plea, only a wild surge of _feeling_ —was still fresh in her mind when there was a sudden gust of warmth, before every single thought in her head cut off, disrupted by the sensation of someone colliding with her, the rough contact jarring loose the sob that had been stuck at the bottom of her throat.

Then there were arms around her, steady hands slipping under her back and her hips, and her plummeting descent slowed to a halt. The world turned on its head again, the sensation flipping her stomach, and the warmth that enveloped her seemed to burn straight through her eyelids, bright as a sunburst.

Forcing them open, Makino found her vision obscured by lapping tendrils of fire, burning from the edges of her periphery, a bright, turquoise blue, and before she could register the sight, or even wrap her head around what was happening, she realised abruptly that she wasn’t falling any more—rather the opposite, as whoever was holding her _soared_ upwards through the air.

She was flying, she realised with a startled jerk, recognition surging up her chest, along with what felt like all her insides.

She was _flying!_

The person carrying her inclined his head to meet her wide-sprung eyes, and Makino saw now that it was a man. Or— _bird_? He had a beak, but it curved at the corners with the clearly human characteristics of a smile, and his body seemed a curious combination of a human torso with a bird’s legs and wings, although even those seemed otherworldly, the plumes of his blue feathers licking the air like flames, although they didn’t burn her.

She quite forgot to scream.

Catching her open-mouthed stare, her rescuer flashed her a grin, and as though he hadn’t just plucked her out of free-falling through the sky towards certain death, said, with all the casual ease of a meeting between friends—

“Yo.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say? I love dramatic rescue scenes. Also MARCO.


End file.
